


The Lying Detective

by consultingidiot (seanceinthealps)



Series: Season Four [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Use, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Hurt John Watson, Jim Moriarty in Sherlock's Mind Palace, John is a Bit Not Good, Lack of Communication, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Not Canon Compliant, Other, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Pining, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock is Alone, Sherlock is a Mess, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanceinthealps/pseuds/consultingidiot
Summary: Sherlock is back at Baker Street after Moriarty's supposed return. Alone, he must face the greatest villain he has ever encountered; a villain he has not yet managed to beat: himself. A resurfacing of Sherlock's demons and the loss of his friend throws the detective into a tumult of self-destruction and tangled deceit, whilst simultaneously battling one of the most dangerous serial killers he has ever faced.>Plot points are entirely taken or largely inspired by BBC Sherlock, and I will not claim to take credit for them.>note for those like me who this kind of thing matters to: this fic takes place within 2015 to match the season 3 timeline
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson
Series: Season Four [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655074
Comments: 71
Kudos: 74





	1. Moonsoaked Clients

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter whew!  
> Not really too happy with this chapter but I reworked it way too many times and I figured it had to do yikes :) Hopefully y'all will still find it okay :)))

{ Go outside?

Seems unlikely

I'm sorry that I missed your call }

* * *

* * *

Cane tapping the damp cobbles ever so slightly, a soft hum in the foggy night, she paced outside the front door. The air of early March was crisp and biting, stinging her exposed face as she dithered. She didn’t know how to approach, what would she say? There was really nothing to go on other than the note that was pressed and folded tightly in her enclosed palm - white at the knuckles. She tried the black door tentatively, which loomed in a way which seemed ridiculous for its actual height. It was open.

The floorboards squeaked as she followed the slats to the foot of the stairs. Her cane touched the first and she inhaled, before beginning the arduous ascent up the seventeen wooden steps. 

She had hardly made it eight steps up when a gentle voice came from its base.

“Sherlock? Is that you?”

The voice was hesitant but kind - she knew she would have to reply. Peering over the bannister she saw the caring, lined face of an older woman. Their eyes met, and she watched as her worried taut lips morphed instead into a welcoming smile.

“You must be a client,” her voice was kind but tinged with barely concealed worry, “I’ll pop the kettle on, you can wait as long as you like.”

Faith retracted slightly, unsure of how to proceed. She could tell the lady meant no harm yet she still squirmed at the offer. Gripping the handle of her cane, she drew a quick, sharp breath.

“Thank you, that’s very kind, but I really don’t want to trouble-”

“No, no. Don’t be ridiculous. Come on, have a seat.” 

Awkwardly, Faith made her way back down the stairs she had scaled already and followed the woman into a warm, homely apartment. Everything in the little kitchen was neatly arranged, in the way you’d suspect it to recently have been cleaned. Faith suspected, however, that this small kitchen was permanently fresh and clean-smelling. 

Beckoning her to a chair she had just pulled out, the lady busied herself with a kettle and collected a pair of mugs from the cupboard. Faith sat in a strange but somehow comfortable silence, hands clasped and folded on her cane, watching the simple process of making tea as though it were the most consequential task in the world.

An hour passed while Martha Hudson gently coaxed one of the detective’s clients into small snippets of conversation over what was now two cups of tea. She had watched the girls shoulders loosen and her grip on her cane slacken throughout this hour; this pleased the landlady - she had been frightened and alone before and it had pained her to see. 

An eruption of clattering from the front door shook the glass cupboards in the cosy bubble of the kitchen. Faith flinched at the noise, and her eyes darted like minnows to the noise’s source. Mrs Hudson, however, only frowned and heaved a despondent sigh.

“That’ll be him,” she said, grimacing and pointing at the thumping that began to ascend above their heads. “He’s gone upstairs. Tell you what, I’ll walk you up there if you can wait for me to tidy up.”

“Yes. Thank you, of course.” Faith said, relief radiating from weary eyes.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, dear, you have a client.”

Mrs Hudson was in the doorway of 221b, peering into the apartment, Faith skulking in the hallway behind her. The commotion that had previously filled the room ceased, before picking up again - but faster and with more fervour. 

“Sherlock! I know you can hear me!”, she called again, louder this time, before turning to Faith with apologetic indignation. “Really, you’d think by now he’d have learned some manners! Also, I apologise for the dreadful state of that room. Sometimes he thinks I’m his housekeeper - which I’m not, mind you.”

Faith smiled weakly in response. The noise from the apartment stopped again, and the next second a man was at the door. Upon scanning him, Faith wondered if this really was the same man she had seen in the news; he seemed disheveled and nothing like the formal man she had seen plastered across TV screens and newspapers these last few years. He slouched into the door frame with an idle air she would not have expected from a renowned detective. Noticeably, he seemed to have grown a shadow of a beard, his shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his under-eyes were dark and sunken. She may not have been a detective but Faith knew at least that this man seemed to have lost the necessity for personal hygiene and grooming. 

It didn’t matter. She needed his mind, not a perfect looking gentleman with neatly trimmed hair and and a freshly ironed suit.

“Now, Sherlock really,” Mrs Hudson was saying as she tried to push past him into the flat with no avail, “You really ought to take better care of this place. I really won’t do it for you, you know. And you must take care of yourself! Look at you! You haven’t been outside in a month and then you disappeared for two days? I’ve been worried sick. John too.”

He blinked quickly in succession, before his face morphed into a dubious parody of a smile - genuine enough, but disconcertingly manic. 

“John? John called?”

“Yes, dear, and visited yesterday. I suppose I should give him a ring now then?”

Sherlock’s eyes studied Mrs Hudson for a few moments.

“No, no. Please. That’s really not necessary. Much too late- it’s- it’s too late for you to call him now.”

“I dare say he would like to be informed immediately, Sher-”

“Yes, yes Hudders. But really, it isn’t necessary. Best let the good doctor sleep, don’t you think? Now that he’s going to be a father, he’s going to…” The detective’s voice trailed to an abrupt halt as his eyes drifted to Faith watching from the shadows. “Who’s this? What’s she doing here?” he demanded, gesturing at Faith cowering in the darkness of the hallway.

“I _told_ you, Sherlock. She’s a client. Same as any other, though I daresay you really need a case now… Oh!” Sherlock had put a hand on the landlady’s shoulder and pushed past her, seemingly unaware she was even there anymore. As if she had been nothing more than a set of drawers in his path. 

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock paced around an almost immobile Faith, inspecting her. A porcelain statue of a woman; each crack primed either for repair or to be chipped away until she was in sharp, irrevocable pieces.

Sherlock entered the apartment again, beckoning for Faith to follow. 

The door closed with a soft, metallic click and Mrs Hudson was left, agape, staring a wooden door. 

Tutting and sighing, she made her way back down the stairs and back into the warm and clean apartment she had left behind. Comfortably, she sat on the wooden chair that had been left pulled out, and watched the clock ticking onward. She would not sleep until she saw Faith leave. It was the least she could do. 

* * *

Mrs Hudson watched in vigil for ten minutes before her head began to loll on the palm of her hand. Sleepless nights in anticipation and worry for her tenant upstairs had clearly taken a toll. With no children of her own, over the time they had spent together she had come to view him as a son. She was half asleep as Faith stole her way down the stairs and to the front door of 221 Baker Street. Only the stomping of frantic footsteps on the stairs jerked her from slipping into her dreams. 

Blinking blearily, her eyes adjusted to the light of the room. She stretched her arm out; it had fallen asleep from the weight of her head resting upon it.

“Your life is not your own, keep your hands off it, do you hear me?” a voice garbled from the entranceway. It was Sherlock. More desperate and flustered than his usual patterns of speech, but it was indisputably him. “Off it. _Off it_.”

Mrs Hudson drew a biting breath, he was talking, but it was too hushed to make out. She crept towards the entranceway, careful to remain unheard - she would ideally not want to hear anything sensitive or personal about the young woman she had no right in knowing.

“You can keep your scars. I want to see your handbag.”

“Why?”

“It’s too heavy. You said I was your last hope and now you’re going out into the night with no plan on how you’re getting home. And a gun.”

Stifling the urge to inhale sharply, Mrs Hudson kept her distance. It wasn’t her place to intrude - she shouldn’t have heard that, although she was sadly not too surprised at the deduction. Sherlock would confiscate the gun, she thought. He was a nice man really, under all that unfeeling detective nonsense John always wrote about. She moved to back away into her kitchen again, but instead stopped in her tracks. They were leaving. _Both of them_. She wanted to intervene but there really was nothing she could do. Dithering in the darkened hallway, Mrs Hudson waited until the door slammed and the hallway was silent once more. 

Dejectedly, she sighed and went to bed at last.

* * *


	2. Danger Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another blond companion, another cane, another distraction to get through the night. The wheel turns, nothing is ever new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal thoughts + drug abuse

{Oh I was thinking about killing myself,

don't you mind

I love you,

don't you mind, don't you mind}

* * *

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and Faith Smith walked for hours through the night and into the early morning. The sun was nervous to arrive, shying away behind the clouds as the first rays filtered onto the rain dappled pavement. It was nice. They had walked together, and Sherlock knew he had saved her. He played it off with deductions and a colourful plan to torment his elder brother preying on the pair from the sky, but he just had to get her through the night.

It must have been around 8am, as he and Faith sat looking out onto the cold sun speckled water. Silent and apart, but strangely together. Sherlock couldn’t look at her; it was all too familiar. With the addition of a gentle tap on the pavement accompanying her soft footsteps, Faith jerked Sherlock back to January 30th and John Watson following him in chase of a taxi. The night after they’d met and the night Sherlock had probably felt most at peace in all his life - discounting the whole serial suicide thing. Another blond companion, another cane, another distraction to get through the night. The wheel turns, nothing is ever new.

He didn’t know - or care - how long he and Faith had sat on the small bench overlooking the river. When Sherlock finally spoke it was focused; this was work, nothing more, and it should be treated as such. He was taking the case because it was interesting to him, first and foremost. Sentiment didn’t even come into question.

“Do you know why I'm going to take your case? Because of the one impossible thing you said.”

“What impossible thing?”

“You said your life turned on one word?”

“Yes, the name of the person my father wanted to kill.”

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, Faith’s presence blurring into white noise. He didn’t doubt Faith’s adamance that it had genuinely been one word that had shaken her so deeply, but he couldn’t place how this was quite plausible. Names were in two parts.

Celebrities often, especially within music, carried a single word stage name. It seemed ridiculous, yet plausible. Ruling it out as an option would immediately be breaking every rule within detective work. Assumptions and false conclusions had always been, in his experience, more dangerous than murder.

“Do you have any personal connection to a celebrity - or is there someone you particularly…” Sherlock trailed off, he wasn’t quite sure what word to use. Admire? Faith had seemed to have understood though. Hands folded in her lap and her feet shuffling in the dust, she answered.

“I do like Jude Law… uhm why?” Faith blushed deeply and hung her head, covering her face with her hair.  
  
“Right…” Sherlock grimaced. Such infatuation with celebrities had always been beyond his understanding. It was hopelessly unrealistic. He didn’t know how these fans managed to emotionally maintain such a dreadfully one-sided relationship. 

“That’s two names. Not him. Something else - something I’m missing. What name would have distressed you enough to leave such a lasting impact? Who?”

“I don’t know, Mr Holmes!”, Faith implored “That’s why I came to you!”

He would have had it by now, if his thoughts weren’t so jumbled and foggy. Faith was saying something - payment? - but it was distant and faraway. Stranded alone and shrouded in mist on a little boat in the churning sea, Faith calling to him from shore. Sherlock forced himself to look at Faith, a deliberate performance of attentiveness to her words. His fingers itched with tantalising temptation. Lethargy laden eyes threatened to close entirely, but he pushed on - sailing his small ship over the undulating current toward shore.

“I- I don’t need your money.”, he said plainly, “But I don’t work for free.” Extending a palm toward Faith, Sherlock didn’t care if she saw the blemishes on his extended forearm. It was liberating, not having to hide; he didn’t have to preoccupy himself with pulling down his sleeves as he did around John. Faith could know, if she didn’t already - she had her scars too. 

Sherlock felt the cool metal press into his hand. Loaded. He didn’t think about how easy cocking it pulling the small trigger back would be - only a few simple movements, minimal effort - _couldn’t_ think about it. That was a dangerous place to venture into. John couldn’t be hurt again - not by him. Not by anyone.

Sherlock held the cruel contraption loosely and walked to the railing, before flinging it as far as his leaden arm would allow. It had to be disposed of, had to sink to the bottom of that river and stay there. Willing the machine to corrode in the water, to become fully functionless and stripped entirely of its purpose. It couldn’t be allowed to continue - to pose any kind of threat. 

He had reluctantly accepted that John should really keep hold of his gun on that cold January evening all those years ago. John needed it to protect himself from the kind of danger the cases could lead them on - but he had, on numerous occasions, wanted to tear through metal like paper. Nothing should be allowed to have that much power; nothing should be able to take a family member or friend away within only a few moments.

“Taking your own life. Interesting expression, taking it from who?” It was instinctive, a vocalisation of the thoughts trawling bleakly through his skull. A new personal philosophy. “Once it’s over it’s not you who will miss it. Your own death is something that happens to everybody else.”

Insular. Faith was suddenly not there anymore, instead the world turned and span, and his grip on the railing was all that grounded him. He heard his own voice, only hours younger: _your life is not your own keep your hands off it_. The voice was layered, repeated and echoed. Dull repetition of the same words - an internalised mantra. 

Seconds passed. Minutes? Sherlock heard John, the calm of his voice lulled his eyes open. The doctor was on the bench, his expression mocking and gentle; you’re an idiot the creases at the corner of his eyes taunted jokingly.

“You’re not what I expected. You’re nicer,” John said. 

No, not John. Faith. Faith was sitting on the bench, still talking to him. He was nice? Nicer?

“Than who?”

“Anyone.” 

His muscles ached and screamed, forcing him to let go - let go of the only shred of reality left. Crumpling pitifully and as easily as a doll left unplayed with, Sherlock found himself staring into the icy eyes of his brother. Not Moriarty this time. _Mycroft_.

“Pity, brother mine. Such a terrible pity you turned out to be such a disappointment. It’s a shame, really, that even John isn’t in need of all your moping around anymore. What could you ever provide him now? _You’re disposable_.”

Sherlock screamed. Guttural and misted with the pain of it all, Sherlock keened on the chalky concrete for everything he’d wanted and everything he’d lost. The wailing, cramping agony in his abdomen forced him into the pavement - into himself. He screamed mutely until the sweat on his brow trickled in his eyes, senselessly stinging them with salt and misery. Ugly and selfish, Sherlock wallowed in his own self-inflicted torment. He deserved this. Deserved every inch of the searing knives twisting in his gut. 

For everything he had even entertained the possibility of. Everything he had ever dared to dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I haven't updated in almost a fortnight but I'd love to have an upload schedule? I'm thinking weekly, let me know which day works best for y'all :)  
> And! As always kudos and comments are so so appreciated, its just about the only thing that keeps me going :)


	3. Digitised Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The messages flashed on his screen and Sherlock elected to ignore them. Only lies had details, and he couldn’t afford to complicate the story. John’s intellect was lacking in comparison to his but he was far from stupid. In actuality, he was one of the smartest people he’d met besides Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of text messages in this one

{I, I wanna marry you

Said I, I adore you

And that's all I have to say bye-bye

And you opiate this hazy head of mine}

* * *

* * *

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Faith asked for what seemed to be the thousandth time, as they ascended the steps to 221 Baker Street. The early morning traffic was already in motion and Sherlock was eager to get back to the security of his flat’s four impenetrable walls.

“Yes. Yes, _of course_. I’m okay. I _told_ you - that happens sometimes. Really nothing to worry about.”

“Whatever you say.”

Sherlock huffed, masking absolute shame. He was glad for a moment that Faith was isolated. If she started talking about what had just transpired, it could affect the numbers of those who came to Baker Street. 

Faith lingered at the doorstep; what more could she possibly want from him was beyond his comprehension. Sherlock mimed checking a watch, hoping Faith didn’t realise that it was entirely nonexistent.

“Well, you’d better be off. I have… things to do. I promise I’ll visit you when I’ve solved it. Okay, bye bye!”

“You don’t even know where I live-”

“Easy enough to find out. Now, leave.”

Faith turned forlornly, and limped down the few stone steps, hearing the thud of the door close behind her.

* * *

Tap water hitting the bath’s ceramic muffled the soft clinking of glass and metal in the next room. There was a pause in movement and only the trickle was left filling up the bath threatening to overflow. Sherlock came into the room, revitalised and invigorated after the nights ordeal; this - this feeling - was what he had so desperately wanted to get back to Baker Street for. 

He stood at the edge of the bath watching the water lazily creep higher and higher until it seeped over the edge. The sudden touch of warm water at his feet spurred him into turning the faucet off - he could mop it up later, if he remembered. Shedding his clothes, he slipped into the bath allowing displacement to empty more of the baths contents out onto the floor. His head slid under the water allowing it to rush into his ears and fill it with a peaceful babbling.

It was full minutes before he resurfaced fully. Already the elation was thinning and the heavy, calm fog settled in. He reached for his phone which lay on the table beside him. 53 missed calls. John. Mrs Hudson would break her word if John called one more time - she was already wearing thin in her ability to have John kept in ignorance. Although she too, he hoped, was only aware of part of it. He opened the messaging app.

Wednesday - 9:48am  
_Hey Sherlock. Would you like to pop over later? You haven’t messaged in a week. Got a case? John._

Wednesday - 9:56am  
_I know I’ve been awful at communicating and organising stuff recently. Baby stuff is incredibly time consuming which is bloody ridiculous as she’s not even here yet._

Wednesday - 3:36pm  
_Guess not today then._

Wednesday - 8:43pm  
_Please message me when you get the chance? Would love to know if you still exist._

Wednesday - 11:06pm  
_You probably have some kind of case. You should have invited me. It’ll be even harder to organise stuff once the baby’s actually here._

Wednesday - 11:07pm  
_I’m going to sleep. You’d better message me tomorrow._

Thursday - 7:32am  
_I’m free again later after 5?_

Thursday - 5:57pm  
_Christ, I wonder why you even have a phone if you can’t answer a single phone call. At least text!_

Thursday - 5:58pm  
_It’s been two months since I actually saw you._

Thursday - 5:59pm  
_Granted that might be mostly my fault._

Thursday - 8:03pm  
_Mary and I are doing well, by the way, thanks for asking. She’s due in 2 weeks so I’d really like to see you before then. Cheers._

Thursday - 10:22pm  
_Sod this. I’m coming to Baker Street._

Thursday - 11:28pm  
_Mrs Hudson is worried. Get back to Baker Street now. This isn’t fair to her, you prick._

Thursday - 11:30pm  
_Or to me._

Friday - 1:56pm  
_Answer your fucking phone. We don’t know where you are._

Friday - 7:43am  
_At work right now. I expect a response when I get home at 5._

Friday - 6:02pm  
_Honestly don’t even know why I expected anything._

Friday - 11:14pm  
_Mrs Hudson rung. Apparently you got home about half an hour ago? Nice of you to let me know._

Sherlock scoffed. John really was insufferable. Making this big parade of how much he cared, yet he still didn’t mind marrying someone and moving to the other side of London. In the blink of an eye Sherlock became the sole occupant at Baker Street and John hadn’t even cared. Yet, he couldn’t know - not about this. He was too angry the last time - he couldn’t do that to him again. Not to John.

_Home_

John still called Baker Street home? That means nothing, he told himself, it’s likely a force of habit - he did live here close to four years.

Typing the message was slow, painfully slow. His fingers was usually nimble, dexterous - could type with little error behind his back if he wanted to - but the keyboard rippled along with the bathwater and his fingers couldn’t seem to find the right keys.

Saturday - 9:18am  
_Lovely to see such an incessant number of notifications, John. I must remind you, I already have one prying nuisance constantly sticking his nose in places they don’t belong, I’m hardly in need of another. Not that it’s your business, but I was on a case. SH_

Almost immediately, a text appeared on his screen. 

  
Saturday - 9:19am  
_Great. Fine. That’s so wonderfully kind of you, Sherlock. Good to know you’re still intolerable._

Saturday - 9:21am  
_I’m free all day by the way. In case you wanted to tell me about it?_

  
Sherlock blinked at the phone screen and smiled.

  
Saturday - 9:26am  
_I suppose that could be arranged. I will try to fit in a visit later today. Have to finalise some things on the case first though and will be at the station for a while. SH_

Saturday - 9:27am  
_Since when did you have a schedule?_

Saturday - 9:27am  
_What was the case about?_

  
The messages flashed on his screen and Sherlock elected to ignore them. Only lies had details, and he couldn’t afford to complicate the story. John’s intellect was lacking in comparison to his but he was far from stupid. In actuality, he was one of the smartest people he’d met besides Mycroft. He would almost definitely realise very quickly if two facts didn’t coincide with one another. Laying the phone back on the side table, he plunged in hazy content into the water once more. 

Sherlock didn’t see the final messages illuminate on the screen.

Saturday - 9:29am  
_Okay fine then. See you soon, love you._

Saturday - 9:29am  
_Shit. Sorry. Habit._

[messages deleted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who have left a kudos :) Not to sound like a broken record but the kudos (and comments!) are invaluable to me. Looking at numbers is a weakness but the numbers really do indicate to me if yall are enjoying it!


	4. The Lure of Companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plague of the human condition festered within every single person on that busy street at the height of rush-hour, but the man at the back of the cab had yielded most perniciously to the sickness, despite his insistence that he was above such flaws - that his intellect shielded him from its onslaught. Loneliness drove him to self-destruction, to achieve only a few hours in a mindless state of detachment. A self proclaimed sociopath with nowhere left to turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm this chapter has a double meaning for sure. sigh.

{ Shadows settle on the place, that you left

Our minds are troubled by the emptiness }

* * *

Over three full hours seemed to have condensed into ten minutes as Sherlock stared at his phone screen reading 12:42pm in an ice cold bath. Jittery from the cold, Sherlock heaved himself out of the bath, dried and dressed in the clothes he had left himself. The shirt had long sleeves, which thankfully made sense for the mild March weather. Besides, it was unusual for Sherlock to not wear sleeves anyway, a habit he had developed for the very same reason sleeves were now required. He needed the sleeves to protect John.

Overtly aware that the shadow of an unkempt beard did not assist him in assuring both John and Mary that he could completely handle his personal matters, Sherlock made sure to shave. Carefully and slowly his razor hummed, gratified at finally becoming useful once more, until his face in the mirror looked entirely like himself again. He tousled his hair in a way that was so familiar to him that he almost felt exactly as he had done in the years he and John had spent together. 

Then the itching came again. It always came back. A persistent nagging in his fingers to repeat the motions all over again, to satisfy the want - the need. The process was scrupulous; the rustling of the plastic as the powder was emptied onto a silver spoon dusting over his reflection that watched him, ashamed. He could feel the serrations on the lid of the citric acid, the feeling of the grooves under his fingers as he unscrewed and poured it - watched it mingle gleefully with the powder. Heard the soft click of the lighter, the rush of a small flame as the spoon charred and the substance bubbled and melted. Felt the shoelace, firmly tied, and the euphoria. Everything and then sugary nothing. 

The process was ingrained into his mind the same way a child will never truly forget the way they learned to ride a bike. Sherlock had once thought he could delete the memory, but it was lodged sinisterly into his hard-drive. Always primed and ready to lure him back down. 

* * *

  
Four hours later, a cab jostled down the streets; just another car with a destination, insignificant in the swarm. In it was a man who had given in and succumbed. He had rationalised the action, but secretly even he knew it was a rouse. A futile justification to an undeniable human weakness. Human error. 

The plague of the human condition festered within every single person on that busy street at the height of rush-hour, but the man at the back of the cab had yielded most perniciously to the sickness, despite his insistence that he was above such flaws - that his intellect shielded him from its onslaught. Loneliness drove him to self-destruction, to achieve only a few hours in a mindless state of detachment. A self proclaimed sociopath with nowhere left to turn.

Traffic buzzed dully in the back of Sherlock’s mind. He was going to be seeing John for the first time in two months, and he had to force himself to maintain his composure and logic. John, on the most part, had the tendency to miss such things; he was a man that trusted and would likely tell himself lies before believing his friend had fallen back into old habits. Mary on the other hand had a tendency to see Sherlock to his core and further. It was her Sherlock was worried about.

“This it?” 

The taxi had pulled up outside the little white house that was home to John and Mary Watson. It was pristine, perfect - exactly the type of house you would find in a children’s book in which the only complication was the mother misplacing her favourite pair of shoes. Not the kind of house Sherlock had ever envisioned for John, but he was happy here; he was with Mary and soon would be a father. He was happy for him. Truly.

“Sir?”

“Sorry- sorry. Yes, thank you.”

Sherlock blundered out of the cab, and wedged a fistful of notes in the cab driver’s outstretched hand. The driver seemed pleasantly surprised at what Sherlock had given him but didn’t say anything. He just drove off down the street again, shrinking into a tiny black speck amidst masses of grey pavement. 

Drawing in a sharp breath of the sticky air, Sherlock descended the smooth steps to John and Mary’s front door. His mind was clearer than usual, and he felt, for the first time in ages, alert and present. He had to focus; he had to ensure he didn’t let anything slip or anything show. 

Sherlock rapped on the door. Once and then twice. What felt like an eternity passed before he was face to face with Mary Watson. She seemed heavily pregnant; if he remembered correctly John had said she was due any day now. Mary studied him closely - blue eyes narrowed. Trepidation surged through him, had she already figured it out?

There was nearly no time left at all before John would become servant to the wailings of an infant, leaving no waking hours to go on cases. To see Sherlock at all. Then there he was. John was suddenly behind Mary in the corridor. He was wearing one of those hideous jumpers, which gave Sherlock a little solace - he clearly hadn’t changed at all. John’s hand rested on Mary’s shoulder as he came closer behind her.

“Sherlock.”

Seemed a little counterintuitive, to state his name. No greeting, just his name. Sherlock was unsure how to respond; was he missing something, something he would have picked up in regular circumstances?

“John.”

* * *

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. It wasn’t natural, and he was almost entirely certain the whole room could feel it. The Watsons had invited him inside and they had all sat in a tense, stilted silence for several minutes before Mary took the initiative.

“Right, well. This is all very fun and lively, but how about I leave you both to chat while I make some tea?”

She sucked in her teeth as she spoke, clearly only trying to find a means of escape. Sherlock heard the click of the kettle being turned on, and the slow bubbling of water slowly growing louder. It was a similar rushing sound as when he allowed bathwater to fill the canyon of his eardrums. The noise subsided gently, and only the soft chime of ceramic clinking together could be heard from the kitchen now. It was familiar to him. To sit in thought with noise and life happening in the rooms around him; it was always so quiet now at Baker Street, and he didn’t have the energy to pick up his violin to fill the quiet anymore. He wasn’t aware of his eyes becoming heavy, the noises filling him with the closest thing he had felt to home in months.

“I don’t know why you decided to visit if you were just going to ignore me.”

“What?”

John had been making an effort to start conversation, and Sherlock had been entirely focused on the sounds drifting pleasantly from the kitchen. This was exactly what he had intended to avoid. He was painfully aware that in that moment falling asleep had been dangerously plausible.

“I asked what the case was.”

“Oh. You know the usual… murder. It was only about a five.”

“A week is a long time for a five.”

“Had you considered, John, that sometimes replying to your messages about your blissful suburban Utopia is of little interest to me? That sometimes I may not wish to know about the strangely shaped mole some patient had or the colour of your nursery?”

“Christ, well okay. Just wanted to keep in contact since you never bother to start a conversation yourself.”

John bristled and clenched his jaw. His eyes were cool, but Sherlock could see the tension in his arm and the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the side of the armchair he sat in. Sherlock knew he had upset him, but he couldn’t reverse his words without seeming insincere. Not that he had the energy to anyway.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, even his tongue felt weighted, the words tumbled out of his mouth like a landslide. “Sorry for not replying. I really am glad to see you, John.” 

“I’m glad to see you too, you berk,” John sighed, the corner of his mouth creasing ever so slightly. “So, let’s hear everything about the case. No, I don’t care if its boring- I’ve missed this.”

“Oh, erm. Okay, so the murder was…” Sherlock felt his mind running, raising alarms, desperately trying to create something John would believe, but to no avail. His mind ran torpidly; neurones fired electrical signals that sluggishly scraped the lining of his brain. Thought without clarity. He was grateful to see Mary reentering the room, tray of three steaming mugs balanced carefully as she walked. 

“Just in time,” John said, grinning at his wife and gesturing at the spot on the sofa next to him. “Sherlock’s about to tell me about the case that took him so long.”

Mary laid the tea tray down on the side-table, and reached across to pass one to Sherlock. She held it out for possibly 10 seconds before Sherlock clocked he should probably take it from her. He took his by the mug’s body, which was close to boiling. Mary’s eyes narrowed and fixed themselves on Sherlock’s hands grasping the burning ceramic, but seemed to brush it off. Sherlock, however, didn’t notice; he was too busy formulating a believable lie.

“How lovely, was it a good one, then?” 

He hated doing this - lying to John. Sherlock knew that nothing could be worse than John grasping the truth, he would overreact and no amount of insistence would allow Sherlock to have any freedom again. And, most of all, it would hurt him. Sherlock was already a grievance in John’s life and he was not about to enlarge that burden.

“Apparently it wasn’t even a good one, so why did it take you so long?”

Sherlock felt thousands of pairs of eyes watching him in anticipation, the room was suddenly stifling small with the mass of bodies expectantly waiting for him to speak. He knew it was only John and Mary but he felt as though he had an audience. An audience of three. Moriarty had wormed himself into this cosy sitting room, wormed himself into Sherlock’s mind despite his deliberate attempt at barring him out with wads of mindless cotton. He could already feel the words wrenching at the folds in his brain. _Liar_ , he jeered softly, _one wrong move and it’s over, sweetheart_. _John will never speak to you again._

“Shut up.” Sherlock hissed under his breath, warding away the wraiths - a way of distinguishing between tortured invention and reality. He had vanished as abruptly as he had arrived. Sherlock felt it: the disappearance of Moriarty’s unexpected company. Could feel air flowing back into his tired lungs and he breathed deeply.

“Sorry?” John said, brow suddenly furrowed and head tilted in concern.

“Sheffield. That’s where it was. Sheffield. And it didn’t take the whole week, anyway.”

The curtain rose and Sherlock was alone on a stage, the blinding lights ready to highlight and pick up every wrong turn or inconsistency. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and stared dully at the contents of his mug. A lie had to be woven and the web was prepared for crafting it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello wonderful reader :) if you've gotten to this point i love you and i'm super grateful


	5. Eggshells and Bombshells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s hard-drive had been running faster than it had ever before; new little deceitful inputs being crafted and stored each second. Whirring faster and faster so that even he wasn’t able to rein in a coherent cluster of ideas. It was now slowing down. Overheated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a little while, i think? the schoolwork i've been getting during quality is honestly more than we'd have done whilst at school haha. this chapter was a hard one to right if i remember correctly, and i'm still not sure if i like it all that much. sigh.

{Last night I looked up into

The dark half of the blue

And they'd gone backwards}

* * *

“One of Lestrade’s police people - one of the other ones, you haven’t met them - decided to request my help for a case in Sheffield. I must admit, I was reluctant to travel as far as that - especially since I was almost positive I had already solved it. Though, I didn’t have anything to do at the time so I rationalised that a short trip could do me good. A change of setting to keep my mind keen and well-adapted to new situations…”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, skip to the good bit.” John smirked.

“Well… I had been called to investigate the murder of a man in his late thirties. His friend had reported it, had happened to be visiting him that day. Apparently had just gotten back from a business trip and decided to stop by before heading home. Only to find his friend dead in his bedroom - apparent suicide. But, he had been right handed, that much was obvious from the smear of ink on his right hand and little finger. Also that he wrote a lot, but you know- that’s not really, important. We’ve been here before you see, the banker guy, uhm- Vinnie… The Chinese gang case. You know what I mean.”

John frowned, processing the information as well as Sherlock’s apparent amnesia. 

“Van Coon? The Black Lotus?”, John prompted, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah, that. Anyway, like I said we’d been there before so it wasn’t too much of a stretch. I-”

Sherlock’s hard-drive had been running faster than it had ever before; new little deceitful inputs being crafted and stored each second. Whirring faster and faster so that even he wasn’t able to rein in a coherent cluster of ideas. It was now slowing down. Overheated. 

The train he had been riding was screeching to a halt. He wanted to cover his ears. Wanted to yell and drown out the shrill metallic clatter of brakes piercing through his brain. Instead he cleared his throat and wrung his fingers in his hands. Hands that he was now dimly aware were red and sore. He couldn’t remember how they had gotten burned. 

Lying was exhausting and he was overtly aware he would not be able to continue for much longer.

“I’ll cut to the chase. It’s boring anyway. It was the wife of the victim’s friend. It was easy enough to gather that the two men had been having some kind of an affair. Wife jealous, kills husband’s lover. Problem solved.”

“Sherlock Holmes resisting the urge to show off?”, John joked, “Never thought the day would come. You know I do like listening to your deductions, right?”

Only able to blink at him, Sherlock could feel eyes boring into his cranium; eyes scanning him up and down. They weren’t John eye’s, John never had this penetrating of an effect. It wasn’t paranoia either. This was Mary Watson; she had sat in vigil, listening attentively to his story. She still said nothing. 

“Definitely only a five.” John chuckled, filling the silence that had once again managed to seep into the room. His laugh was a soothing sound, like cold satin against skin, something Sherlock had grown to associate only with the warmth of Baker Street in the years before he had left. The early years - before John had set his sights onto more than just adrenaline-filled adventure. “Shame, really. What are all the criminals up to recently, if there hasn’t been anything decent in weeks?” 

Sherlock gave a deliberate, subdued smile - his best attempt at a reaction.

Realising he had allowed the tea to grow cold in his hands, he forced a polite sip before laying it on the side table. He felt his eyes sag, the weight of the faux attentiveness he had maintained only seconds before now resting on his eyelids, balefully forcing them closed. Every nerve in his body was settling in for slumber, and he so desperately wanted to succumb to it. Allow himself to drift off into some hazy, temporary nothing. 

The fog that swirled around him in the height of his usage was the best part of it all. It was saccharine escapism, the taste of sweet oblivion carrying his mind somewhere irretrievable where nothing and nobody could hurt him.

Somewhere in the distance, Sherlock was obtusely aware of a muted rumbling. A phone. He heard John make an apology and leave the room to take the call. It was important. Somehow.

* * *

Head close to slumping into his chest, Sherlock heard a faraway voice. His name.

“Sherlock, Sherlock?” It was eerily familiar. Transported back to that hospital room in early December. The exact same lilt as the words oozed from her tongue. She had, as he had been slipping in and out of consciousness, begged him not to tell her husband she had been the one to put Sherlock in hospital. Sherlock had complied to the request. To an extent.

Drowsiness blinked from his eyes and mind by force of will and exigency, Sherlock lifted his head to meet Mary’s gaze. It wasn’t one of concern, but rather an apathetic examination - he assumed she looked at patients like this. Somehow that was comforting to him. Emotion could only lead to more confusion.

“Sherlock. John took a call, he won’t be back for a little while. He did say, but I’m going to assume you missed that,” Sherlock feigned a look of puzzlement, but he could only assume it was a dreadful expression of false bewilderment. “Don’t even try to look at me like that. I’m not stupid or blind.”

“Neither is John.” He spoke with the air of a defeated young toddler, caught in the act of doing something he shouldn’t have been.

“Well no, not literally, but he’s blinded by trust. _He’s_ the doctor, but you’ve managed to trick him into assuming the best. God knows how, you look like shit. Looks like you haven’t eaten in weeks, not to mention that you’ve been completely out of it for the last two and a half hours. No offence. ” 

Sherlock winced. Had it really been two and half hours and, more importantly, had it really been that obvious? He supposed he should have expected this from the vast numbers of dubious glances Mary had been giving him all evening. 

“Jesus. Okay. Come here,” Mary said, one hand on her swollen stomach, indicating for Sherlock to come sit besides her. Lacking the energy to argue, he did so - if tentatively. He perched awkwardly at the edge of a sofa cushion as Mary leaned over and peered up into his eyes. The light outside had almost completely gone so there was little defence as to why Sherlock’s pupils were as constricted as if the room was flooded with rays of vibrant sunlight. Cold disappointment flashed across her eyes. Disappointment that was conspicuously akin to the expression his brother often liked to wear.

“Arm.”

“You’re not a doctor, I don’t see why-”

“I’m a nurse. _Arm_.”

Teeth gritted, Sherlock gave Mary his arm and stared determinedly ahead, setting his jaw. He hard a sharp intake of breath, as his sleeve was pushed back, but he refused to face her. Jerking his arm from her grip, he pulled his sleeve down and folded his arms defensively across his chest. 

“Sherlock… I have to tell John, or someone. Anyone. John will eventually find out anyway, no matter what I do. I’m sorry, I just can’t-”

“I know you intended to kill me.”

The bombshell landed plainly and gently in the centre of the small room. A soft voice passing through the lips of a man at the ends of the earth was all that was needed to detonate the explosive that tore Mary’s heart from her throat. She sounded like she had been punched swiftly in the gut and ripples of the explosion were almost visible in the warm glow of the lampshades. A soft, pained expulsion of breath, and then a silence. 

Sherlock watched the clouds roll over the slowly darkening sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you see what i did with the case? sherlock's subconscious making some points. ++ i wanted to know if yall like the lyrics i include at the beginning of each chapter? im not going to stop doing them probably, but i wondered if you read them or not. just curious


	6. Morality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary danced on a paper thin veil of morality, teetering between right and wrong. She’d never had to this before. Her previous work was entirely divorced from emotion or a sense of morality. Everything in her life had been a simple checklist of tasks to complete, from collecting milk to taking lives. That was how she lived and breathed; it was all too complicated now, she wasn’t sure that she had ever been taught this. Did normal people get taught this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall get an insight into my personal Mary Morstan! i think shes so interesting? i know shes often a bit of a marmite character (you love her or you hate her) but honestly shes confusing to me. i genuinely do believe she loves john, and that is her primary objective in this fic, to maintain that relationship with john. not very morally good of her (as youre about to read) but it comes from a (maybe?) good place? idk you get to decide, and thats why shes so goddamn interesting!

{Dancing 'round the lies we tell

Dancing 'round big eyes as well

Even the comatose, they don't dance and tell}

* * *

Sherlock had felt Mary’s resentment in the weeks leading up to Christmas. She blamed him for what had happened. It was only after John forgave her that Mary had begun to warm to Sherlock again. It was fair really, as far as she was concerned Sherlock had ruined the life she had rebuilt for herself.

When Sherlock had stumbled upon Mary, as she pointed a gun at Magnussen’s exposed temple, she did have limited options. It was true what he had said that night in Baker Street, when Mary transitioned from wife to client: she hadn’t shot Magnussen because John would have become a suspect in his murder. Mary calculated that Magnussen would rather use her involvement rather than consulting the police. She was right, of course. 

Yet, Mary Watson had never intended on keeping Sherlock alive. Sentiment was something Mary knew she couldn’t have any space for - she had been specially trained to avoid it, in the same way Sherlock had personally trained himself to do the same. The truth, she also knew, would find a way of eventually coming out if it lay along the banks of Sherlock’s internal memory and she couldn’t take that risk. She had said so herself; she would do _anything_ to stop John finding out. 

He just wished she would’ve defied her instincts and just talked to him, she was scared and cornered and did what to she had to do to prevent John from knowing the truth. Protecting John from the truth had been her sole focus and he supposed he couldn’t really blame her. Wasn’t that - in some sense - exactly what he was doing now? Lying to John Watson to protect him from a more painful truth?

“What,” Sherlock could see wheels turning behind the her panicked eyes, teeth grinding against her bottom lip in astonished unease, “I don’t understand. How do you- Why didn’t you- You _said_ -”

Sherlock didn’t speak, he was acutely aware of everything again, the hum of John’s voice from multiple rooms away. It was quick and frantic - he seemed to be arguing with someone in rushed, aggravated tones. The tap in the kitchen was dripping. It was consistent and gave him something to focus on. He wanted, as far as possible, to avoid too much communication or explanation. Even the thought was exhausting.

“ _Sherlock. Please_.”

Sherlock finally turned to face Mary. She seemed entirely distraught, and was clutching her swollen stomach as though it was grounding her from the world imploding around her feet. Tears dribbled from her eyes as she stared at Sherlock imploringly.

“I didn’t want to ruin your marriage. It seemed best.”

He shrugged and watched her face pale and jaw unhinge until she was almost comically parodying a fish. Sympathy almost got the better of him then, but he couldn’t afford to pity her. Plainly speaking, it was hardly his fault she was in this situation now. She had attempted to kill _him_ \- not the other way round. John should, morally speaking, have immediately been told but Sherlock hadn’t wanted to hurt him more than necessary. Mary was good to him. Sherlock could see that, and he knew that John would adjust better to the idea that Mary had been an assassin if he believed that she was reformed - that she’d never intended for Sherlock to die.

“I really didn’t want to, please believe that. I- I just couldn’t let John know who I was. _What_ I was. I really love him so much, Sherlock. I’m so so sorry. I didn’t want for it to come to that. Please, believe me.” She had a hand pressed to her mouth, and the tears were flowing freely now, tear ducts finally loosening their grasp on tears that had clearly been repressed for an age. “I don’t actually know why I genuinely thought that you believed what you told John. I- I just thought I was lucky, so incredibly lucky that-”

She was blubbering now, Sherlock noted dully. Mary’s voice droned through his eardrums, the persistent nagging of a fly whirring at his head, an unremitting aggravation that irritated his weary mind.

“ _Please_ be quiet. I won’t tell him if you don’t.” 

Stunned, Mary only gaped at Sherlock wearing an expression of perturbed disbelief that Sherlock had never seen her carry before. He met her stare. She had to know he meant it.

* * *

  
Mary Watson had a choice to make. 

She’d told Sherlock to go home. It had been painfully obvious and Sherlock was right, John was by no means stupid, even with his vision entirely clouded by misplaced trust. And now she had to decide how to play this before John returned. 

Sherlock would have known exactly what he was risking when he left her there in the living room alone; he would have understood - even in the state he was in - how easily Mary could uproot each lie Sherlock would have told in the past weeks- months? Leaving her there willingly meant he believed his secret was safe. He believed she would make the selfish choice. 

Mary danced on a paper thin veil of morality, teetering between right and wrong. She’d never had to this before. Her previous work was entirely divorced from emotion or a sense of morality. Everything in her life had been a simple checklist of tasks to complete, from collecting milk to taking lives. That was how she lived and breathed; it was all too complicated now, she wasn’t sure that she had ever been taught this. Did normal people get taught this? 

Infuriatingly, Sherlock was right. She wasn’t going to tell John. Of course she wasn’t, there was far too much to lose. Too much at risk. 

Getting John to forgive her the first time was enough, but Sherlock had eased the process in lying. By telling John a more favourable truth. Quietly, she thanked him for keeping it that long. It had allowed her and John to rekindle what they had before, and she was immensely grateful for that. Nothing was important enough to have her let that go again. Shooting your husband’s best friend was one thing but for him to know she had, in that moment of frenzied panic, truly intended to kill the man was entirely another.

John would find out about Sherlock anyway - one way or another. When that day came, though, there was no reason for Sherlock not to blab on her, so she took it as her own personal duty to keep John in the dark for as long as she required. She would watch passively as Sherlock ravaged himself in front of her nose. He had her exactly where he wanted her.

Typical.

 _Why was Sherlock always fucking right?_ She hated him for it. He had known, as he had left their front room, the choice she would make. Had known with such confidence how awful she really was. Ashamed and sickened by herself, she could only imagine how selfish the detective thought she was. And yet she couldn’t be sure that word even crossed his mind. Did he think that way? In a world in which every action can be deduced and calculated to its most basic configuration, do right and wrong even register?

* * *

  
“Sorry, guys. That was the hospital. They’re so understaffed at the moment, they really wanted me to come in.” John chuckled slightly as he reentered the sitting room, pocketing his mobile, “Don’t worry I told them I was bus-”

John drank in the room. He saw Mary sitting exactly where she had been when he’d left the room, forlornly clutching her heavily pregnant belly. But there was no sign of Sherlock.

“Pissed off then, did he?” John felt his anger rising. That all too familiar bubbling crater of rage, threatening to erupt and explode to the surface. He’d usually been able to temper it, Sherlock had actually helped him with that. Somehow, minor daily grievances let him roll with his annoyance more, allowed him to see past the anger and laugh it off. But he didn’t live at Baker Street anymore, and Sherlock was making that fact incredibly clear. Working secret cases behind his back, never bothering to reply to his messages. John couldn’t believe he’d felt guilty for not texting Sherlock in a week. That man was supposed to be his best friend, but he clearly had no trouble dipping in and out of his life as if John didn’t even _matter_ to him. 

“Something like that.” Mary whispered, not making eye contact.

“Great. Fucking perfect. I could have gone into work then. Wonderful making special arrangements for a selfish, entitled _prick_ ,” John blazed and kicked the side table, knocking Sherlock’s cold tea to the floor. Weeping, the ceramic mug shattered and tea seeped into the carpet. “A selfish, entitled prick who can’t even be fucking _bothered_ to spend three hours with me, after becoming as elusive as fucking _Bigfoot_ for two entire months! Why aren’t you _saying anything_?”

Mary stared at him, her blue eyes filled with cloudy apology. John didn’t want to be _pitied_ , he didn’t want her to be _sorry_. He just wanted Sherlock Holmes to communicate for a change.

“You know what? Sod this, I’m going to work. Least they seem to appreciate me.”

Mary reached for her husband, an effort to bridge the distance he had just lain out between them. She could plainly see that he was withdrawing into himself, she knew him all too well. Hurt barricaded him into a pool of self-pity and that barrier wouldn’t come down for a while. Maybe days, maybe months. 

She knew she could help. Tell him the truth, explain the situation, but she couldn’t.

John could never be allowed to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i noticed there are a lot of italics in this chapter. usually i like to stay away from too many, since i feel like you should be able to gather tone from good writing. i just felt, this was such an angry chapter (especially towards the end) and like the italics just give it the oomph factor lmfao  
> \+ as always i'd love to hear any thoughts yall may or may not have :) and of course kudos are the greatest gift <3


	7. Outside Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Mycroft, aged 13, had preached this phrase since he had begun school. It had stuck with him. Selfishness was the only way he realised he could ever survive. Caring or sentiment should not be given rein, it only clouded the rational thought the Holmes brothers valued above all else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its been a little while ! I turned seventeen on friday which is cool, but also between now and the last update i posted a oneshot detailing the first time Lestrade and Sherlock met, in relation to this fic. I will be referencing it slightly in upcoming chapters, by no means do you need to read it to understand but I'd appreciate it since its only a small read anyway :)

{ Time for you to grow up

Don't you know that life is rarely ever fair?

I wouldn't ask you to take care of me }

* * *

Sherlock dozed in the taxi on the way back to Baker Street, but it had been close to five hours. The effects had dwindled substantially - he was treading dangerous waters, and for what? John?  
  
He was, he would like to think, a logical person; there had to be a better way - a better option. The options he had currently available to him were abysmal. Telling John the truth would cause more pain than it was worth. It was, in Sherlock’s opinion, better to suffer for both of them alone. Lying to John was another matter entirely. He hated lying, hated being a liar. Hated the taste of the lies on his lips, and the poison they brought. The webs he spun ensnaring and suffocating him in his own deceit. Worst of all, lies were perpetual - they lived on. There was no way to stop lying, not with something of this scale.

As the itch crept back into his fingertips, Sherlock decided there was no need to worry about his lies spiralling. Checking the mirror to see the driver had his attention firmly fixated on traffic, Sherlock rolled back the same sleeve Mary had earlier. The arms that bore the marks of his prospective termination, Sherlock allowed himself to breathe the putrid taxi air in morbid relief.

He didn’t suppose he’d have to worry about anything at all soon.

* * *

Stiffening his back, Sherlock pushed the door of Baker Street, allowing it to inch open slightly. He had to maintain normality until he reached the apartment. That meant avoiding Mrs Hudson’s prying. Shutting the door with a soft click, Sherlock crept to the flight of stairs. All was quiet. If Mrs Hudson was in, she hadn’t heard him. His breath loosened slightly in his ribcage. He was safe.

Sherlock almost fell as the surge of shaking seized him. Clenching both the bannister and his teeth, Sherlock’s face contorted in an effort not to cry out. This was familiar enough and he knew how to manage it; how to ride the swelling tidal wave until it cleared and he was in control once again. 

Collapsing at the door, Sherlock took in the apartment for the first time in a month. It was both the same as well as horrendously different. Scratches and marks from forgotten sources lined the walls and the furniture, but the kitchen was worst of all. All surfaces were littered with various sets of equipment: beakers, syringes, dirty spoons. Used and most likely carrying some kind of bacteria. He knew he had a tourniquet somewhere in the apartment but he had lacked the resolve to find it again.

While his body paid the repercussions, his mind was still comfortably detached and untethered from his body, floating somewhere just above his head. Far enough away to make it incredibly easy to entirely forget the events that had transpired half an hour ago. He was indifferent, apathetic, to whatever situation may befall in consequence to his decision of leaving his fate in the arms of Mary Watson.

  
Mary was wrong in thinking that Sherlock thought her selfish. Selfish was synonymous with survival: one must do whatever it takes to think of oneself before anyone else. Mycroft had often told him this, after the kids at school had pulled his hair or pushed him and he had just stared at them with unblinking blue eyes. He hadn’t wanted to hurt them back, he had felt as though he deserved it for making them cry - although he never really understood why he had made them cry. Couldn’t understand why deducing an affair between the father of a girl in his class and their neighbour had been wrong. Or how informing a boy that had scraped his knee he may get tetanus and die if he didn’t disinfect it immediately wasn’t in his best interest. Sherlock had only wanted to be helpful, and he couldn’t understand why he always made the other children angry or sad. 

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_. Mycroft, aged 13, had preached this phrase since he had begun school. It had stuck with him. Selfishness was the only way he realised he could ever survive. Caring or sentiment should not be given rein, it only clouded the rational thought the Holmes brothers valued above all else.

And so, Sherlock could never think Mary selfish. Only determined and logical. She saw the option in which she was allowed to keep everything she had worked so hard to gain, and she took it. By Sherlock’s standards, there was nothing wrong in that.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose. It was half past nine on a Saturday evening and he was going over and over the security footage in which his younger brother taunted him in spelling out some delightfully amusing words and phrases: ‘ _fuck off_ ’, ‘ _bollocks_ ’ and the longer ‘ _government_ _pillock_ ’. He had wandered around London writing insults he knew his brother would see from half past ten until eight this morning. It was now a full eleven hours since he had seen his brother leave his flat, but Mycroft was still hesitant to proceed. A visit to his brothers apartment would be incredibly unfavourable for the both of them, he was sure he’d be entirely unwelcome. 

He had run some identification on the woman Sherlock had been with last night and she matched Faith Smith, 34 years old and daughter of renowned and wealthy philanthropist Culverton Smith. What Sherlock had been doing out on the streets of London for almost ten hours with this woman, even Mycroft could not possibly know. For Sherlock to spend this much time with another person, even if she was a client, was almost unheard of. What did she want from him, and why was it important enough to Sherlock to finally leave his apartment for the first time in two months? 

Mycroft held concerns about Sherlock isolating himself from the rest of the world. He knew what that meant - where that led to - but he was not yet aware of Sherlock purchasing or participating in anything of that nature. After his overdose at the very beginning of the year, Mycroft had visited his brother on his fourth day back at Baker Street - his birthday. Sherlock had been suffering with strong withdrawal symptoms but had assured Mycroft that he had believed he was being sent to his death and that had to count for an exception of some sorts. 

He had resolved to stay clean on his own accord. Upon hearing this, Mycroft’s relief had been immeasurable; this wasn’t something Mycroft had forced on him but rather something Sherlock had decided himself. 

John Watson, Mycroft knew, was the best thing to have happened to his little brother. It gave him a reason to better himself and keep from plunging into cavern after cavern of misery. Mycroft had been searching for something to self-motivate Sherlock for years. Bribery, threats, complete and utter relentless control. None had worked. Sherlock had always been shrouded in far too much melancholy for anything to have affected him for longer than a month. 

Little had Mycroft known that the only motivation Sherlock had required was the kindness and loyalty of a retired army-doctor, home from Afghanistan. An army doctor that Sherlock would love with such uncharacteristic devotion that it was able to pull him from the oblivion he had drowned within since childhood.

Wracked with years of worry, Mycroft was still conditioned to mistrust his brothers promises. Mycroft had some cameras hidden outside Baker Street to monitor his brothers movements, as well as access to all the cameras throughout London. Just in case. As of yesterday morning, Mycroft knew nothing of his brothers activities. Knew only that he had not been picked up leaving Baker Street, and that a call to Mrs Hudson a month ago confirmed that he didn’t seem to have left his apartment at all. But now, after the previous nights developments, Mycroft had every reason to inquire at Baker Street. 

Mycroft loathed playing protector, a role he had upheld since seven years old. It was always somehow expected of him, even it was never directly commanded. As much as he hated the constant weight upon his mind, Mycroft knew that the blood pumping through his heart, arteries and veins would play that role of their own accord. He cared for his little brother so much more than he would ever care to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tiny insight into baby sherlock, considering maybe visiting very early mycroft and sherlock at some point during this series if yall would like that? im talking up until sherlock is around 13/14, teenage sherlock is definitely going to covered somewhat.  
> \---  
> the song is: i wouldn't ask you by clairo <3


	8. Epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under normal circumstances, or what he had considered normal before his and John’s relationship had fallen from the roof of Bart’s, he would have spent his sleepless nights playing the violin, but he hadn’t played since he had returned to Baker Street in January. After he was supposed to have boarded a plane and fly into certain death. He had attempted to play on the first day, but the wooden instrument felt heavy in his arms and the strings felt as though they were tearing apart his flesh with gentle caresses. Sherlock was only able to play the first few notes of the waltz he had written for John’s wedding and nothing more. The violin lay abandoned and dusted over at the corner of his bedroom, weeping and pleading to feel the dancing of the bow across its strings once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its funny because i almost entirely forgot about this chapter but upon reading it back i was hurt in the way i would have been if i was reading it for the first time. idk i just think thats interesting.

{When I was a child, I heard voices

Some would sing and some would scream

You soon find you have few choices

I learned the voices died with me}

* * *

Drowsing in between periods of complete alertness, Sherlock grew irritable at his inability to sleep properly. He had entirely run out of what kept his mind the way he wanted it and was suffering for it. Sleep had in the recent months become a pleasant comfort if he had sufficiently disconnected from reality prior to it. A path the closest to oblivion he had managed to artificially create. 

Under normal circumstances, or what he had considered normal before his and John’s relationship had fallen from the roof of Bart’s, he would have spent his sleepless nights playing the violin, but he hadn’t played since he had returned to Baker Street in January. After he was supposed to have boarded a plane and fly into certain death. He had attempted to play on the first day, but the wooden instrument felt heavy in his arms and the strings felt as though they were tearing apart his flesh with gentle caresses. Sherlock was only able to play the first few notes of the waltz he had written for John’s wedding and nothing more. The violin lay abandoned and dusted over at the corner of his bedroom, weeping and pleading to feel the dancing of the bow across its strings once more.

His mind ambled carelessly to the small, blue tablets in a jar at the back of his bathroom shelf. John had never found them; they had initially been hidden in sealed safe under a loose floorboard in his bedroom. Their presence in the place where he slept had been a comfort to Sherlock, though while John lived at Baker Street he often hardly remembered they existed. Hadn’t needed to remember they existed. 

They were intended for this purpose. He had been prescribed them once, many years ago, and he had managed to hoard a significant amount for the moments when the prescription was no longer valid. Moments like this one.

* * *

Sherlock slept until past nine the next morning. This was the longest he had slept consistently in years and he had forgotten what it was to be unconscious for such an extended period of time. And yet he felt anything but refreshed. The pills had done their job too well, had allowed his body to obscure the pain throughout the serenity of his sleep. Now everything hit him all at once. A tonne of boulders maliciously wedged under his skin.

Swaddled in covers soaked in his own sweat, Sherlock gripped the sheets as the tremors raided his muscles. It wasn’t grounding and yet the thin fabric in his grasp tethered him to coherent thought. Nausea churned in his stomach, threatening to have the tea he had at the Watson’s make an appearance. Tears fell thick and wet of their own accord over the already damp bedsheets, as he retracted into his own, feverish body; fingers entangled in the knotted fibres at his scalp, pulling at the hair in an instinctive way of anchoring himself. 

His mind, for the first time in months, was awake and aware. All of his life he had grown accustomed to being more affected by environmental stimuli than anyone else - lights too bright, noises too loud, touches too soft - but this was remorseless. So receptively aggravated by everything, thoughts flying like flocks of startled crows, Sherlock could seemed to do nothing to stop his mind reeling dizzyingly further and further from his control.

And, Moriarty had returned.

  
Eyes flashing with the intensity of multiple blinding and scornful interrogative lights, Moriarty grinned, teeth bared, from the darkest corners of Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock seized and retched nothing but liquid and bile onto his white covers. The stench of sickness and sweat engulfed the room, but Sherlock was hardly aware of it.

_I will always return to you, Sherlock. We’re the same remember? Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Those were your words, I must remind you, not mine._

Moriarty’s drawl snaked and etched into the membranes of his mind. His tone was playful - a jarring disconnect from the nails Sherlock was now digging into his skin, scrambling for purchase - anything to hold onto. Something real. Sherlock was only obtusely aware of the crimson blood now pooling at his fingernails and dribbling miserably into the fabrics of his bed. Red against stark white. 

_You’re burning now, Sherlock, can you feel it? You’re burning. Burning._

Launching into a singsong parody of ‘London’s burning’, Moriarty devoured Sherlock’s being and leeched off of any remaining fight he had left to give. Barriers were broken as easily as tearing through paper. Moriarty was allowed free rein.

_Sherlock’s burning, Sherlock’s burning._

Sherlock could feel it. The simmering that began in his gut and soon flared in cold surges, emanating agony in every nerve. He knew it would be relentless, but the weakness and hopelessness he felt curled into a wretched heap of human flesh was overwhelming.

_Fetch John Watson, fetch John Watson._

Despite what it would reveal to him, Sherlock longed for John’s presence. The cool elegance he upheld when he became not just John Watson, but Doctor John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Never frantic or showing signs of visible distress when someone else needed his attention. John could help him right now. He just didn’t want to do it alone. Not again.

_John, John._

There it was again - that name. _His_ name sung in an eerie melody, reminding him of the light he was lacking. John had been the sun and now his sky was always dark, the sun having moved on to the other side of the planet - warming the heart of another. Sherlock waited and waited for the earth to shift on its axis and rotate back round so the warmth may linger on his soils once again, but it never did. The sun seemed to be content shining eternally onto other lands and plunging Sherlock’s into all-consuming darkness.

_Not just anyone, not just anyone._

Moriarty was right. John was all that he lived for, all that kept him from relinquishing the restraints he placed on himself when filling his bloodstream with poisons. The restraints were minimal, but they were restraints nonetheless. Without the prospect of John’s reaction, the face he could see him making burned into the back of his mind, upon hearing of his friends self-imposed passing he imagined he could have done it. Imagined administering a fatal dose would have been easy. 

It couldn’t just be anyone that could pull him from the noxious pit Sherlock had once again succumbed to. It had to be John. He’d done it before - the day they’d met they had saved one another simultaneously, and had continued to save each other in every day that followed. 

John was wiser and kinder and braver and more selfless and better than anyone he had ever known. Better than he could’ve ever dreamed of being and yet John had spent so many days with him. Sherlock knew he was insufferable - he had been told from a multitude of sources so he couldn’t dispute it as fact - but John had stayed. Stayed for longer than Sherlock could’ve ever hoped. The compassion John possessed was incomparable to anything Sherlock had ever seen.

So of course John wasn’t just _anyone_. 

_You’re nicer_

_Than who?_

_Anyone._

It wasn’t Moriarty that murmured suddenly into the forefronts of his mind. Sherlock’s own voice played as a grainy recording in his mind. His and Faith Smith’s. The case.

_I have to tell John, or someone. Anyone_

Mary’s voice melded neatly into the voices speaking in chattering whispers in Sherlock’s head. Anyone. One word. Faith’s life had turned on a single word - the name of the person her father wanted to kill. He had been blind to what had been so translucent, so glaringly obvious. It wasn’t the name of a single person, not a name at all, but rather _anyone_.

Culverton Smith was a serial killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> id love to know if any of yall read the londons burning "lyrics" to the tune, because in all honesty i do not unless i intend to. plus i feel like maybe the references to the other chapters wouldve worked better on screen (like the 'anyone scene' was in the show, with clips from the moments) but i hope it still all made sense and stuff  
> \+ as always please do let me know if you liked it! comments genuinely make my day (shoutout to cloud_skater who literally made my entire week with their lovely comment! hello to you if youre reading this!)
> 
> the song is arsonist's lullabye by hozier (the songs vibe doesnt fit this chapter but the selected lyrics do so)


	9. Mouth of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curling like an animal ensnared in a cage against the corner of the car, Sherlock pressed his strangely steady, steepled fingers to his face and focused his thoughts on the case. It was his utmost priority to reveal Culverton’s true nature to his daughter. This was Work, and Work had always been the greatest antidote for sorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as far as chapters go this is absolutely my least favourite out of what i've posted so far but also ironically the one i've spent longest on since i've reworked it sO MANY TIMES. it's still not Excellent but honestly it's driven me insane so this is the best you'll get xx also hey to the people who read my idiot ramblings in the notes, thanks :) yall are cool

{Sedated we're nursing on a poison that never stung

Our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it

Somewhere for this, death and guns

We are deaf, we are numb

Free and young and we can feel none of it}

* * *

Mind reeling, Sherlock staggered from the suffocating binding of his covers. Acutely aware of the soaked sheets - an unsavoury amalgam of sweat, tears and watery vomit - Sherlock decided it could be dealt with later. This was far too pressing - too important. Both to him and to the entirety of Britain. He needed to send a text.

Sunday - 9:23am  
_Can you find the address of Faith Smith? SH._

A text alert pinged in Sherlock’s hand. Mycroft had been quick to respond.

Sunday - 9:24am  
_You spend an entire night with a woman and now want her address? Might we have a new guest to our Christmas dinners, brother mine?_

A growl rose in Sherlock’s throat. He wanted to strangle his hateful, obnoxious brother; he knew full well it was nothing like that. Sherlock didn’t have the patience for this. Not now of all times. 

Sunday - 9:25am  
_Tell me. SH_

Sunday - 9:25am  
_Palace Square, Croydon._

Sunday - 9:25am  
_[picture attachment]_

The response had been faster than he had initially expected, Mycroft was sure to have already discovered Faith’s home address after snooping on him the previous night. Typical enough for his brother to put his beak of a nose into places they had no right to be. 

Sherlock stumbled into the backseat of a cab outside Baker Street, heedless of the impression a sodden man in a crumpled and clumsily buttoned shirt would give the driver and anybody passing by, and grunted the newfound location to the driver. He wished his first course of action was to have taken care of the craving that rippled through his fingertips, to refresh himself before leaving to visit Faith, but he knew he couldn’t waste time. This was Work. 

Another tremor gripped and shook him, as he grit his teeth and pressed himself against the car door in an effort to not alert the driver. The effort was futile.

“You okay mate?”

The cabbie was glancing at him in dubious concern through the rear view mirror, as though contemplating whether to throw him out of the cab or give him some paracetamol. Sherlock shot him a baleful look, the nausea and torment in his gut rendering him unable to speak for fear of groaning in pain or simply vomiting again on the driver’s leather seats. Uncomfortably, the cabbie switched his gaze back to the road and didn’t speak again for the remainder of the journey.

His body was screaming at him to allow him time to reinvigorate his muscles and his mind, but the cabbie was clearly suspicious enough of Sherlock as it was and driving him to a new disreputable location would hardly help that. 

Croydon was almost an hours drive and it was still rush hour. He had every reason to believe he may be at the back of this cab until half past ten or later. Trembling from the withdrawal, Sherlock concentrated on how Culverton Smith could be brought down because the prospect of facing a multi-millionaire serial killer was more pleasant than the alternative: Moriarty filling the wretched open space in Sherlock’s mind that he had recently managed to worm his way into. 

Curling like an animal ensnared in a cage against the corner of the car, Sherlock pressed his strangely steady, steepled fingers to his face and focused his thoughts on the case. It was his utmost priority to reveal Culverton’s true nature to his daughter. This was Work, and Work had always been the greatest antidote for sorrow. 

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock blundered out the cab. His trouser pockets were packed with wads of notes; Sherlock had learned to always have large sums of money on his person for when certain situations arose. It often aided him in other practical ways too, such as having enough to pay a cabbie after forgetting to bring money from your flat. Avoiding eye contact, Sherlock pressed a small heap into the cabbie’s hand who, naturally, seemed surprised at the amount. It would buy his silence, Sherlock was sure. People were boringly predictable most of the time.

Palace Square was a jumble of buildings that seemed both to belong as a collective but also stood flagrantly out from the rest, it was defiant and jarring and yet the sun that filtered from the peeping cracks in the cloud lining offered a warm welcome. It was easy enough identifying the flat that belonged to Faith from the picture Mycroft had sent him - it also matched every deductions he had made about her home during their night together. It was small and the front was overgrown, but neatly so, in tempered ferality.

Why did the daughter of such a wealthy man live in such a modest home? Surely, with his wealth, she could afford anything in London. Difficult relationship, perhaps, or maybe Faith simply preferred a more modest lifestyle.

Sherlock didn’t spot the black McLaren parked opposite to the house and where Sherlock’s cab had pulled up. It was unlike him, to not see such a glaring abnormality in the sleepy, unassuming neighbourhood, but his attention was firmly on the front door of the house. He passed through the gate and did not hesitate to try the door handle. Open.

Another sweeping cascade of cramping, abdominal pain crushed Sherlock into the entryway of Faith’s apartment building, as though he were just crumpled refuse ready to be discarded. Biting his tongue, Sherlock hauled himself upright. This was just one task: let Faith know the truth of her case and the truth behind her father’s terrifying confession. Afterward, he could leave. Ten minutes, that’s all he needed. Ten minutes. Surely he was capable of that much, having already made it this far?

Regaining his breath and straight-backed composure, Sherlock crept tentatively down the narrow corridor, and came to the front door of Faith’s ground floor apartment. He knocked. Four quick, sharp raps of knuckle on wood that echoed in the open, high-ceilinged corridor like the wail of a siren. Sirens unnerved Sherlock, though he would never admit it given his field of work. The ringing of a single keening, monotonous sound only brought his mind back to his late adolescence; his constant vigilant fear that one day he might get caught - that Mycroft and his parents would find out. 

They did find him out every time, of course. Every single time Mycroft would relentlessly lecture him as if he believed that would penetrate the thick walls Sherlock had spent years building, that it would affect his course of self-destruction. Sherlock swore Mycroft to secrecy the first few times and he had reluctantly complied, but came the fifth, his big mouth blabbed to Mr. And Mrs. Holmes who were distraught. But Sherlock had always seen something else there: shame, disappointment. Mycroft repeatedly tried to convince him that their parents were only rightfully concerned, but Sherlock refused to listen. Since then, Sherlock had pulled away from his parents. They had eventually let him drift from their extended fingertips and as a result their son had grown irrevocably distant.

Time seemed to have healed some of that. His last Christmas had been willingly spent at his childhood home; even if it was ultimately to get to Magnussen, it had been… nice. Then, of course he’d also spent that horrible afternoon with his parents. The afternoon before he was supposed to board the plane for his inevitable suicide mission - that had been less pleasant, especially given where he’d gone immediately after. 

Still, despite all their coddling and annoying habits he had missed the tenderness he had in his heart for them. He’d forgotten, in the two decades he’d distanced himself from them, what it was to feel the warmth of his mother’s tight embrace or his father’s gentle smile. 

Sherlock wondered whether Mycroft may have been right. Had he read it wrong, could his parents possibly not resent him for his countless benders? It didn’t matter what they had thought then - if they’d forgiven him for his past - because now he had only repeated his mistakes. Sherlock had no reason this time; this had been a conscious choice. They would be ashamed and would sever ties from him completely. He could hear the grimacing tone in his mothers voice now: _we raised you better than this._

“Hello?”

The person that opened the door was not Faith Smith. Sherlock staggered backwards out of instinct, before addressing the figure before him. Short, thinning but immaculate white-blond hair and an expensive suit. The man, upon bleary recollection, was none other than Culverton Smith himself. Sherlock shot a glance at the room behind him; it was small and cramped yet somewhat homely, with a tattered, plush sofa in a faded dusty red. Upon it sat Faith, staring morosely at the carpet, posture stiff and nervous. 

“Oh… I know you!”

Sherlock blinked at the man, eyes darting across his person - collecting any possible data on him, anything for storage. 

“You’re that famous Sherlock Holmes fella, right? I almost didn’t recognise you - you look smarter in your photos? Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes, big fan of your blog!”

“Not my blog.” Sherlock rasped instinctively - he couldn’t remember the last time he’d drank water. Or eaten. His throat felt as though it were being shredded from the strain of speaking. 

“Not your- ? Oh, of course, that Doctor Watson guy writes it doesn’t he?” Culverton turned to Faith, who was now nervously picking at a loose thread in the already threadbare sofa arm, “Did you hear that, Faith? _Sherlock Holmes_ is here!”

Faith mumbled something indistinguishable, refusing to make eye contact with either men at the door. Culverton flashed a yellow, crooked smile at Sherlock. His eyes didn’t match the sentiment his teeth were attempting to convey; they were dark and clouded, entirely shrouded in a foreboding mystery.

“So, what brings Sherlock Holmes here - to my daughters flat? She’s not in trouble is she?”

He laughed, eyes creasing and stomach heaving. It was abhorrent in a way that Sherlock couldn’t describe, a malicious lingering of evil despite the laughter ricocheting like saccharine bullets in the empty entryway. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but instead dry heaved and doubled over, groaning in pain. Culverton’s teeth and eyes had now traded places: the perfect horrified grimace was plastered on his mouth, but his eyes glittered with the intensity of a child’s on Christmas day.

Hot, sticky ice slathered his skin, soaking him once more in his own sweat. Faith was suddenly at the door, pushing her father to the side and watching in abject horror as the detective trembled. 

“Are you-”

“Fine.” Sherlock gasped aloud, voice jittery and pinched, proving his statement entirely false. Breathing heavily, he forced himself to stand upright once more, staggering slightly from the strain. Faith moved to help him, but he wafted a hand in her face: _stay away_.

Standing straight once more, Sherlock met Faith’s gaze - pitying. His stomach churned. Subtly, Sherlock cocked his head in Culverton’s direction, who was watching with absent interest. A question. Faith shook her head, eyes wide and brimming with apology. An answer.

Sherlock cleared his throat. It hurt and he winced slightly, but he persisted. The events from only moments before were left dithering in the air, stubbornly refusing to be vanquished from the watchers minds. Embarrassing, really. He had promised himself to last ten minutes, but he hadn’t even done that right.

“Faith was a witness to a small robbery a couple months ago - nothing serious, I assure you - but I need to take her phone number, in case the police have questions.”

It seemed reasonable enough, a believable pretense. Culverton nodded curtly, but his eyes were narrowed - calculating. Faith scribbled her number onto a post-it note, which Sherlock crumpled into his palm.

“Okay, right, nice to see you both,” Sherlock half-attempted a wave as he briskly strode from the Smiths, leaving only stunned silence in his wake, “But I have to go… drink a cup of tea, now”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some things i wanna say because i like them and idk i feel the need to mention it, let me do this okay im in charge here. theres such a disconnect in the way sherlock imagines his parents and the way they really are. from the show you see how lovely they are but i can imagine sherlock having a completely different image of them with them voicing his own disappointment in himself yikes. also if you dont know what im referring to in the section about the time he visited his parents after magnussen read the fic before this, aptly titled 'preface'. also also culverton creeps the shit out of me and i hope that came across lmfao
> 
> and! the song is sedated by hozier :)


	10. Affluenza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, now on a larger street swarmed with the stark brown buildings, waited for the car he had ordered. Lone strangers roamed the paths and the sun beamed on them all with smiling midday rays. Each and every one of them had a destination, a goal. They were picking up the milk now or heading to a friends house. The warm March morning was alive with activity; everyone had places to go, yet Sherlock’s destination was undoubtedly much less savoury than those passing by. He was the chill in the bright morning light, the trembling, clammy man in a crowd of golden people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter (see tags)
> 
> i'm well aware i haven't posted in over a week and that comes partly from my lack of a schedule but also i have been thinking a lot about this fic in particular. wondering if people are still reading/still enjoying since i dont hear all that much from you guys so i wonder if yall are still hanging around. also ive been considering the themes within this fic and am well aware its an uncomfortable topic and im definitely feeling that (this chapter definitely touches on that i think). i really hope it comes across that i am no way trying to romanticise drug abuse, and if you feel that it feels as though im promoting it in some way (i cant imagine that you can but still). anyway hi!! if you read this pls leave a comment or kudos to let me know i still have a readership.

{ Money, money

Ain't it funny, honey

When you get what you need

Baby, life is a breeze }

* * *

A quick text out to a multitude of his homeless network retrieved the information he needed within about five minutes. A location. Sherlock himself was almost lost in this area of London - he knew as much as a resident would, and no more. Each street wasn’t engraved into the linings of his brain, a hazy map with each corner and turn obscured by the limits of experience. He had to rely on his network to direct him to where he wanted to be - needed to be. The network did not disappoint, proving once again that his it was his most invaluable asset.

Sherlock, now on a larger street swarmed with the stark brown buildings, waited for the car he had ordered. Lone strangers roamed the paths and the sun beamed on them all with smiling midday rays. Each and every one of them had a destination, a goal. They were picking up the milk now or heading to a friends house. The warm March morning was alive with activity; everyone had places to go, yet Sherlock’s destination was undoubtedly much less savoury than those passing by. He was the chill in the bright morning light, the trembling, clammy man in a crowd of golden people.

Pulling up against the curb, a man nodded at Sherlock to climb in, to which Sherlock complied. He gave the driver the destination, to which he was met with a somewhat uneasy look - the look of a man who could not be fooled by the state of his passenger and the less than palatable direction they were headed. This driver had to be tipped well, Sherlock ruminated. Silence always had a price; Mary’s was the wavering promise of John’s love and this driver… well that price would most likely be the usual. Money. Lots of it.

Sherlock had been raised lounging on heaps of notes and coins. He had never known any better or anything different. Money, to him, was as fatuous as smalltalk. Sherlock would never understand the way somebody like John concerned themselves with finance. It was only another thing he would never understand about the reality of the waking world.

The only moments in his life he had ever had to think about or consider money was when his habits had his parents’ monthly income not provide substantial for what he was buying. That monthly income had never stopped though, which seemed strange to Sherlock, though he had never questioned it since it played in his favour; perhaps it was retain normalcy, repress the thought of the issue, and pretend their son wasn’t spending the money they gave him on his unsavoury lifestyle. 

He wondered if his life might be different if it weren’t for the funds he inexplicably spent on drugs instead of groceries. If being faced with financial hardship would have had him clean in shorter time, or if it would have led him to become a person he would hate to be. 

Being a detective now, he was revolted at the idea he may have turned to crime, but considering the desperate craving that ravaged his mind and body he wasn’t sure if he could have resisted that siren call. Right now, he felt he would do anything.

* * *

  
Three hundred pounds later, Sherlock caught his reflection in a grime-caked mirror. The room in which he stood, had a chipped and questionably stained toilet bowl and a sink that was now a rusty orange-brown rather than white. Plaster peeled from the walls and the tiny window and suffocating tightness of the walls reminded Sherlock all too much of a prison cell. 

The purchase had been too expensive - he knew that. In other circumstances, if he had been nearer to home, he would have spent less than two hundred for what he’d got. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware of the fraudulent transaction (though the dealer had clearly believed he’d successfully conned him) but rather the shaking fatigue that crushed every organ in his internal systems. The need for the small plastic bags and equipment the man was offering, and the knowledge that even a doubled price couldn’t deter him from obtaining them. 

Money had never been an issue, and he certainly wasn’t going to allow it to become an issue now.

* * *

  
Sherlock gasped as starry flecks flooded his vision. How long had it been now? Grappling with his euphoria-saturated mind, Sherlock ultimately gave up on the simple calculation. It didn’t matter how long it had been - only that he was back now. Now there was nothing but incandescent flame and fire, licking every pore in his grateful, exhausted body. Everything in the world was right again.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent gazing numbly at his reflection, fingers gripping like talons at the sullied basin. Overwhelming exhilaration dispersed into the dank room, leaving him with the familiar comfort of stupefaction. 

Riding the currents of oblivion, Sherlock pocketed the remaining bags, and made for the exit. He had injected two doses, as compensation for the suffering he had endured with his mind clear but tormented. Vaguely aware Mycroft would most likely have access to any camera he desired, Sherlock considered it best to don a bought hoodie from a man who lay mumbling at the exit. Sherlock almost pitied him before discerning that the man was nothing but a reflection of himself - no less of a reflection than the man he had seen in the mirror only moments ago.

Hood pulled over his matted hair, Sherlock braved the streets, the sudden harsh sunlight startling him. This time he had no destination, was not even aware of where his feet were taking his staggering frame. Somewhere, over an unknown horizon, was the noise of traffic and the bustle indicative of human life. He was perfectly content to be absent. Absent from his failure to Faith, his dishonesty to John, his blackmail to Mary. Guilt, sorrow, fear. None had a place in the tides that ebbed and flowed, gently lapping at the corners of his mind. 

It didn’t last. 

Whatever was flowing in his bloodstream had not been pure. Fentanyl. He was aware that this had been a high possibility as he made his purchase, but the craving was enough to banish the niggling probability. He’d felt it within seconds of injecting the second dose, but had ignore that gut reaction. Now he was sure. 

The noise around him suddenly deafening and his vision blurred into one terrible, nebulous cloud of spattered colour and light. Cymbals crashed in cacophony about his ears, and his pulse quickened and thrummed in his blood and echoed in his bones. He had injected twice; two lots of whatever he had bought was in his bloodstream. 

In his adolescence he had become accustomed to this. A shady purchase in some alleyway always wound him up in similar situations, but he had never cared then - had almost welcomed it. Now regret coursed through him, alongside the surreptitious substance already in his veins. Regret at never having explained to John, never being able to tell him the feelings he had always carried for him. A haunting burden since the day they had met. His parents, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly. He would never get the opportunity to tell them how much he valued and loved them all. 

Then again, ultimately this was for the best. He had caused enough grief in his lifetime. Every step he took he brought misery both to himself and those around him. Without him around, his parents would never have to worry about their disappointment of a son. Mycroft could finally relax and stop hovering over him. Lestrade - and the entire police force - could finally be rid of Sherlock’s callous, rude presence; Donovan would be delighted. Mrs Hudson’s apartment could be repaired and sold to a sane homeowner who didn’t ruin her property in the early hours of the morning. Molly could finally and completely move on, and with him gone she would be forced to.

And John, John would be allowed to live his life with Mary and his daughter. He could have the life of dreams. A suburban utopia.

This was for the best. Besides, Sherlock wanted this didn’t he? Wanted to finally shake free the disconsolate shackles he had worn since childhood. After all this time there was nobody coming to save him, and he would finally become unburdened of his own existence, which had always hung above him as a shadow of melancholia. Yes, this was for the best-

  
_You’re going to love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you._

_No. Not now. Not now. You shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be possible._

Moriarty perched crushingly upon Sherlock’s shoulders, his phantom wings spread wide blocking all light from view. The darkness was all-consuming, it swallowed the light from Sherlock’s eyes and heart greedily - a beast that had gone hungry for too long. 

Sherlock’s erratic pulse slowed along with his breathing, and he crashed. Moriarty accompanied him the whole way, except now he was joined with more faces from Sherlock’s past. Faces he had forced so deep into his psyche, he came close to forgetting entirely. Almost deleted them. Except now they were back. Exultant laughter mingling with Moriarty’s threatening, alabaster smile. Voices entwined into one another as Sherlock fell to the floor, limp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is affluenza by conan gray :) i hope it comes across from the tone of the chapter that those lyrics are absolutely ironic as is the tone of the song itself
> 
> also idk if you read the note at the beginning but i really do appreciate a kudos and comments are wonderful! i love hearing what you guys think :)


	11. 999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Emergency. Which service?”  
> “Ambulance. I think… yeah. Ambulance.”  
> “Can you tell me what happened?”  
> “I’m not really sure- I’m just in the car behind. The person in front of me just swerved and hit another car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy first of july! im posting at a normal person hour today (its 3pm) instead of the regular 2am so that's rather exciting. this chapter (especially the last bit) i remember being my favourite to write and i dont know what that says about me as a person but hopefully it'll be enjoyable to you too ! :)

{ Maybe it's from my greed

Please tell me that the things I've done

Make your heart beat }

* * *

“Emergency. Which service?”

“Ambulance. I think… yeah. Ambulance.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I’m not really sure- I’m just in the car behind. The person in front of me just swerved and hit another car.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes. Yeah, I’m safe.”

“Can you see who was in the cars in front of you?”

“Erm, I think it was just one guy that swerved, but the other car was a woman with two kids in the back.”

“Are the cars the right way up?”

“Yes. Yes, the cars didn’t flip or anything. They weren’t going that fast.”

“Okay, well there’s two ambulance on their way now. Thank you for calling, this has been incredibly helpful. Could you stay on the phone and update me if there are any changes?”

“Yeah… Of course yeah.”

* * *

The sun was beginning to morph from a subdued warmth to a brilliant whiter and hotter flame, reflective of the sunlight that came with a midday in late March. Glimmers of dewy daylight twirled in through the tall windowpanes and settled on the table, scattering across the white papers. Mycroft Holmes’ chin rested on his hand, welcoming the promise of new warmth. He hadn’t, in truth, slept very much the previous night. His internal fight in deciding how to play the suspicion he had developed surrounding his younger brother, his natural mistrust of both his and Faith Smith’s intentions keeping him awake into the early morning hours. It had, as it now seemed, been rash to doubt his brother - he had contacted Mycroft this morning, in search of Faith’s address. He assumed it a good sign that Sherlock was communicating with others again, especially since five years ago, John Watson had clearly awoken Sherlock’s newfound love of companionship in the recent years. Whatever worked best, he supposed.

“Mr Holmes?”

Andrea stood at his office door, tentatively leaning against the door-frame. His assistant was usually quick and bold to interrupt him - he figured that came from a multitude of his years in his service, she had grown comfortable in his presence. This was abnormal and therefore Mycroft could feel that something was amiss. Dread settled in his gut. He knew this feeling, this situation. This had happened before, again and again. Andrea told him all he needed to know from movement alone: phone still held in tight white knuckles, the way her pity-leaden eyes atypically darted back down the passage she had come. He knew, more or less, what to expect - in some way he wished she just wouldn’t speak.

“Could you come with me and take a look at some security footage we picked up?”

Mycroft nodded stiffly, and rose from his chair in incredulous haste. Time was vital, and he was sure he had barely enough of it. 

“This footage is from a crash about from about fifteen minutes ago. This car…” Andrea pointed to a small black car on one of the computer screens, “Swerved and crashed into this one. The driver of the second car is practically unharmed but there were two kids in the back… Anyway we looked a bit closer at the footage and..”

Andrea trailed off and Mycroft was able to focus on what was on the camera as she zoomed in. The grainy figure of hooded man was apparent walking out into the thronging lunchtime traffic, stepping off the curb and into traffic in front of the black car. It swerved with startling swiftness, and lodged itself into the back corner of the neighbouring family car. Glass sprayed like sea foam, raining the concrete in small shards of piercing dust. The world stilled, and the man remained standing in the street, back to the camera. Seconds passed laboriously, the figure remaining close to motionless, introspectively examining the rubble of which he was the epicentre. 

Until he turned, eyes narrowing at sky. The face Mycroft was staring at was undoubtedly that of his brother.

Although he had expected it, had already known it was coming, the glazed, absent countenance of his little brother still emptied gallons of ice water in his blood.

“Where did he go?”

“Security footage picked up that he went down the alley from where he came. We’ve lost any trace of him past that.”

“He’s still there then,” Mycroft was already leaving the room typing numbers into his mobile, “Call an ambulance to that spot - make sure they’ve got naloxone with them.”

“Yes sir.”

* * *

Sherlock didn’t answer his phone calls. He supposed that was unsurprising but it still solidified the dread that lurched within his chest. Mycroft hated caring, hated the way his heart pressed against his ribcage, pounding and wailing to be released. 

In a serendipitous twist of fate, Mycroft happened to work within the area Sherlock was last detected. He preferred not to have his home and private office mid London. Made for too much noise and too many people. Of course he often had to travel most days, but that was preferable than having to spend the majority of his existence in such a painfully crowded place. 

Familiar with the location of the road the crash took place on, Mycroft was able to arrive within 6 interminable minutes. Broken husks of two cars still stood on the street, pitifully unattended to and shattered, but other than that the road was clear. He parked his car in the middle of the road, aware that it would not be in use for some time. The alley was thin and left barely enough room to breathe; it was likely never used other than to throw out rubbish and therefore without Mycroft constantly monitoring security footage Sherlock would not be found for hours.

In the quickly intensifying white light, Mycroft spotted the figure of his brother hunched against a skip. He sucked in his teeth, eyes stinging from the stench of filth and the sight of his little brother, vulnerable and in ruin. He had been an idiot to allow him the benefit of the doubt. Part of him had hoped that finally, after all this time, John Watson may have been enough to terminate Sherlock’s inclination to wreak devastation upon both his body and mind. 

Mycroft could never grasp how it had gone so wrong - he and Sherlock had almost identical upbringings. They shared the same parents and childhood and yet this had become their lives. Sherlock, he supposed, did always have a tendency to become more emotionally burdened by his experiences, even those of insignificance. 

Sherlock was nearly as intelligent as Mycroft, but time and time again he corrupted himself, rendering him unable to use his intelligence to his advantage. Especially now - with a reputation that crossed borders and a steady stream of work - Sherlock should have enough to occupy him; why wasn’t it enough? 

“Hello, brother mine,” Mycroft knelt beside his brother. No response. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he felt Sherlock’s body jolt slightly and a small, breathless groan came sighing from blue lips. His skin also had a haunting, almost ivory pallor, which was glazed with perspiration seeping through the thick hoodie he wore. Feeling in the pockets of his person, Mycroft scrambled for the sheet of paper. Over the many awful years, Mycroft had quickly learned to accustom himself in this procedure; the way he learned to control the pricking at his eyes from the tense despair he always felt as he fished for that all too familiar list.

His hand came away empty. Each pocket, and the area around his brother, was barren of any solace. No list.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, I’m going to need you to talk to me.”

Panic rose in Mycroft’s voice, despite his attempts to stifle it - to bury it. He hated the fear that pressed at the roof of his mouth and dripped down his throat. Sherlock moaned something incomprehensible in reply, the faintest trace of a voice tinged with utter terror. His brother was afraid.

Holding tight onto his brother’s shoulders he recited the steps he had to take in his mind to give Sherlock a chance. Upon Mycroft’s touch, Sherlock writhed and drooped into Mycroft’s arms. Laying Sherlock tenderly upon the concrete Mycroft pried open, as gently as possible, one sealed eye. As suspected, his pupils were pinpricks in the expanse of his iris. 

Stroking his matted hair and smoothing the loose, tangled strands from his brow that had been plastered there, Mycroft felt the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest lessening - becoming feeble and close to undetectable.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft shook his brother lightly, “Hey, just a bit longer okay? Just a bit longer. Please.”

Mycroft detested the way his voice wobbled and broke in the brittle air between between them, the way his vision was becoming unfocused from undiluted terror and panic. Hated the way his brother felt like a corpse already, and the way that he hadn’t left him a list. 

They had agreed - he had promised - that there would always be a list. Which left him with one unsettling question, tearing at the forefront of his mind: had this been deliberate? 

Most of all Mycroft resented John Watson. He had been Sherlock’s only happiness, and he had allowed himself to completely sever all connections from him. Mycroft had forced Sherlock into finding a flatmate - someone Mycroft could bribe in order to keep tabs on his brother - but John had become so much more than Mycroft had expected. And then he had ruined it. Shattered everything in Sherlock’s world in his absence. The idiot didn’t even know what he’d done and he suspected, given Sherlock’s track record of keeping anything personal confined to his chest, he never would.

Especially if Sherlock died here today.

  
“Mycroft”

It was barely a whisper, more a small gasp that trailed abruptly off into the stifling air, but it was undeniably his name. If Mycroft was more of the emotional type, he was sure he would have wept in bitter relief.

“Yes, honeybee,” he said, fingers still woven into his brother’s hair, “It’s me. Just hold on, I’m here. It’s all going to be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, Andrea is Anthea, i saw a thing where that's her actual name within the script and didnt really bother to fact check it so we're going with Andrea because i think that suits her.   
> as always comments and kudos are wonderful and the song is honeybee by conan gray (i really wanted to call this chapter honeybee but i felt that would ruin the really soft bit at the end so i took a sneakier approach i am willing to bet none of you are already familiar with the song so i felt it wouldn't ruin it. yes i am proud of my deceit)


	12. Hospital Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s like I said, Inspector. Somebody walked out in front of my car, and I panicked and swerved. Okay, maybe I should have swerved the other way, but it was heat of the moment, you know? You can’t arrest me for that… Right?”
> 
> The man was wringing his hands, obviously in immense distress. 
> 
> “No… I wouldn’t arrest you for that, if that is what happened.”
> 
> “It is! Swear on my life!”
> 
> “Here’s the strange thing, though, someone sent me the security footage just ten minutes before I came in here. I had a chance to look over it and you’d think I wouldn’t have missed a man walking out in front of your car, hm? Take a look at this, Mr. Dryden.”
> 
> Lestrade held out his phone with the footage of the accident playing on loop. As he had said, Dryden’s car suddenly swerved into the family car beside it. No stranger on the road. Nobody in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be completely honest in saying I hate this chapter with a passion. Idk what it is since I've reworked it so many times, but god i hate how it reads. Maybe it's just me, idk. It's a necessary evil, I suppose since this chapter affects the further narrative (and most likely of the next 'episode' in this series so,,,) Hopefully this hasn't completely put you off, since it's not too long anyway.  
> Additionally my impulsive ass has listened to Snail by Cavetown a lot recently and I'm genuinely considering risking it all and writing a baby/childhood Sherlock mini fic/oneshot based off of my interpretation of the song lmfao. It would fit into this version of my own "canon" (where canon s4 never existed lol) so I'd add it to this series. Lemme know if you'd be down for that lol, or just listen to the song and make your own inferences :p

{ There's a humming in the restless summer air

And we're slipping off the course that we prepared

But in all chaos, there is calculation }

* * *

The waiting room of the emergency ward was painfully quiet, the lurid brown shade of the walls accurately reflecting Lestrade’s boredom. He shouldn’t be here, it was a ridiculous assumption to take this as murder inquiry - that man had most likely been inebriated when he swerved, and there was no logical reason for a police inspector to wait around in a hospital to investigate a drunk driver. 

Unfortunately for him - but fortunately for London - it was a quiet night for police work. He had already completed and turned in his paper work and it seemed he really had nothing better to do than to sit in this waiting room on the other side of London for a man to explain very little and probably confirm his suspicion that he had been driving whilst intoxicated. 

The staff had told him he was not yet allowed to visit - he was still with his family - but they assured him it wouldn’t be long, especially since he had hardly been injured. While it may have been a quiet night for the police, the same could clearly not be said for the hospital. The place was in chaos. Staff members dashed between rooms, wheeling patients and making frantic phone calls to what he could only assume - judging by the frenzied words he had listened in to - were to off-duty staff members, begging them to come in for overtime.

Lestrade knew John worked in this hospital, despite it being so far from his home; it had been a huge pay raise from being a GP and he could only assume the slight travel distance wasn’t enough to deter him.

Sighing and leaning back into his chair, Lestrade could only watch the doctors and nurses hurry through the corridors either side of him. He felt a hindrance, and somewhat guilty for adding another layer of stress into these workers lives - especially since they seemed to already be massively exhausted and overworked.

  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

The lady that called his name wore an amiable smile that almost completely masked her utter exhaustion. Her brown eyes were warm and inviting, yet her under eyes were lined and dark. It seemed that it wasn’t just tonight that this hospital had shortages; no wonder John got offered the job despite being located so far away.

“You can go and ask your questions now, sorry for the wait.”

“No, no - it’s no problem, really,” Lestrade could sense that the young woman felt as though she had hindered his investigation in some way, despite having so much on her plate already. “Seriously, thank you. This probably won’t amount to much at all anyway.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. He mentioned some interesting things, but he was on some medication at that point so I didn’t really take him too seriously,” the lady said before continuing after catching Lestrade’s raised brow. “Not on anything anymore, though, don’t worry. Nothing to compromise the integrity of the investigation or whatever.” 

She grinned sheepishly at him before excusing herself and darting back into the busy corridor. Lestrade smiled after her; it was good to see such a young person in the medical field. It was the same feeling he got whenever some new detective started at the force.

* * *

Lestrade stared, dumbfounded, at the man gesticulating with increasing stress in the hospital bed. 

“Say that again?”

“It’s like I said, Inspector. Somebody walked out in front of my car, and I panicked and swerved. Okay, maybe I should have swerved the other way, but it was heat of the moment, you know? You can’t arrest me for that… Right?”

The man was wringing his hands, obviously in immense distress. 

“No… I wouldn’t arrest you for that, if that is what happened.”

“It is! Swear on my life!”

“Here’s the strange thing, though, someone sent me the security footage just ten minutes before I came in here. I had a chance to look over it and you’d think I wouldn’t have missed a man walking out in front of your car, hm? Take a look at this, Mr. Dryden.”

Lestrade held out his phone with the footage of the accident playing on loop. As he had said, Dryden’s car suddenly swerved into the family car beside it. No stranger on the road. Nobody in sight.

Dryden held his hand in his hands, shaking his head in nervous disbelief. “This- this doesn’t make any sense, I- I could’ve _sworn_ -” he muttered, under his breath. Doubt was setting into the man’s mind, mind straining at the possibility that he may have just imagined a man in the road in front of him causing him to cause a car accident.

“Look, I’m sorry mate, but the footage has no trace of any such person stepping out in front of you.”

“No, I should hope not.”

Head whipping round to face the new voice in the room, Lestrade found himself looking at none other than Mycroft Holmes. The man stood at the door with the same snobbish, entitled air he always liked to carry around in his pockets. 

“Oh, don’t stand there looking gormless detective inspector, it really isn’t becoming. Take a seat. What I have to say to Mr. Dryden will most certainly apply to you as well.”

Dumbly, Lestrade turned and sat in the cushioned chair at the corner of the room and folded his arms. Mycroft was already seated at Dryden’s bedside. What on earth could Mycroft Holmes want in a random stranger’s hospital room?

“As you have kindly informed our friendly detective, you claim to have seen a man walk out in front of your car which then caused you to crash your vehicle?”

“Yes. I swear I saw it.”

“You’d be correct in remembering it that way.”

“What?” Both Lestrade and Dryden chimed in unified bafflement. Mycroft held out a hand in Lestrade’s direction, cutting off his imminent question.

“If you would be quiet, detective inspector, I am about to answer your question. Kindly refrain from asking fruitless questions if at all possible, I’m sure everything will be clear - even to you - in just a few moments if you didn’t interrupt.”

Lestrade stopped in his tracks. Stupid. He knew better than to jump in during an explanation, with questions answering themselves before being asked, but his surprise had gotten the better of him. Allowed him to look a fool in front of Mycroft Holmes once again. When Lestrade had first met Mycroft some ten years ago, it became obviously apparent where Sherlock had gotten his distaste of the police force from. Aside from Sherlock, Mycroft may be the most condescending to the work they achieved on a daily basis.

“We - my staff that is - doctored that footage deliberately. I’ll spare you the details Mr. Dryden, since it does not in any way concern you, but you must not mention the fact that it was someone in the road that made you swerve your car. I will of course provide you with some significant incentive, should that be required, both for your trouble and also for the somewhat unfortunate position you have landed yourself in.” Mycroft folded his hands, and rested his chin upon them, staring at the man with an unflinching gaze.

“No thanks.”

“Excuse me?” Mycroft’s face was the picture of incredulity. Clearly used to getting his way at all times, the man was surprised to have been shut down by a man in a hospital bed.

“Sorry, no offence or anything, but I’d rather not have people think I swerved a car and injured three other people with absolutely no reason. It’d make me look horrible.”

Mycroft heaved a guttural sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to clear his mind of the sheer prospect that someone was turning his offer down.

“If you don’t want the bribe then I’m afraid it’ll have to be like this. Mr. Dryden, if you do not comply to what I have said I can personally assure you you will soon find yourself in a messy little confusion, in which there will be strong evidence that you are the perpetrator to a crime you did not commit. Do I make myself clear?” Mycroft fixed Dryden with his trademark glare and continued calmly, as though nothing of importance had happened, “Now, will you take the bribe, or not?”

Dryden’s face seemed to melt into a look of horror. He sat mutely, blinking at Mycroft with wide frightened eyes. After a few moments, the man nodded solemnly and slowly. The nod of a man who’s hand were completely tied.

“Wonderful. Now, did you tell anyone else, other than our friendly little policeman here?”

“Just my doctor, but I don’t think she believed me.”

“Doctor Oyekan?”

The man nodded again. If he wondered where Mycroft had gotten that information, he didn’t dare show it. Mycroft hummed slightly, appreciative of this good news. Lestrade thought back to the young woman who must have been Dryden’s doctor. Her tired eyes and bright smile didn’t need Mycroft poking around, and Lestrade decided to ensure he wouldn’t stick his beak into her business; like Dryden had said, she didn’t seem to have believed him anyway.

Casting an apologetic look towards the man in the bed, Lestrade followed Mycroft out of the room and back to the waiting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: for the following chapter I'd recommend you read another installment in this series "beginning". Not necessarily for this chapter, but I can guarantee I'll be touching on that story in following chapters (not in anyway that'll massively hinder your comprehension of this story, so don't worry if you don't want to!)  
> The song is Glory and Gore by Lorde (god it was hard to find a song for this chapter, since i had approximately 0 emotions associated with it, which might be why i hate it sm)


	13. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two words. Two words were enough for Lestrade’s mind to puzzle everything together and for his heart to stop his rhythmic beat. He had known Sherlock long enough to see firsthand the rainclouds that trailed closely behind him throughout his life. Had seen firsthand when Sherlock was at his worst. Lestrade and Mycroft had been the only ones to know the details of Sherlock’s more volatile and punishing years, and kept that information safely to themselves. Being the only ones privy to the reality of the situation, they had developed an unspoken connection and understanding in their mutual care for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uploading this earlier than i would've because i give in super easy (this one's for you, Lilady1)

{There's a change in pressure

We're never gonna lie to you  
  
My broken veins say that if my heart stops beating  
  
"We'll bleed the same way"}

* * *

“What the hell was that about?” Lestrade demanded, once the door of the hospital room had safely closed behind him. “You scared the crap out of that poor bastard, why do you even care?”

“I did what was required.”

Mycroft studied Lestrade for a few moments, a reflective, scrutinizing gaze that Lestrade had become much too familiar with. Existing within such close proximity to two Holmeses could make you uncomfortably used to be being looked at like a lab rat. He made a move to turn and leave the waiting room, but Lestrade still had something he had to address. Honestly, he didn’t particularly care about what brought the government to a strangers hospital room, but he did care when it affected an overworked young doctor who really didn’t need Mycroft Holmes’ irksome nose in her business.

“Look, Mycroft, wait,” Lestrade paused waiting for the man to reluctantly turn back to him, his face radiating displeasure. “I know you don’t want anyone to find out about whatever happened that made you edit security footage, but Doctor Oyekan - I spoke to her earlier - really didn’t seem interested. Please don’t bother her.”

“I appreciate your community spirit, but unfortunately this is not up to you.” He grimaced, patronising and unsympathetic. Lestrade wanted to yell at the man who very clearly did not have any hint of compassion. He wanted to argue, to try and match the ice of his heart with the fire of his words, but he knew it would never amount to anything. Mycroft Holmes was one of the most powerful people in England, and there was nothing a simple police inspector could do to divert his course of action.

Mycroft did not move to leave again; he stood rigid and still in the middle of the waiting room, as if frozen in his own thoughts. Lestrade watched as Mycroft drew a sour breath and shifted on his feet. There were at least 6 feet between them at this point, but Mycroft’s lowered voice bridged the distance.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft looked as though the taste of the unspoken words in his mouth were enough to make him physically ill, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but it has occurred to me that perhaps you ought to be informed, given your peculiar entanglement in my brothers life.” 

“Sherlock? What does he have to with anything?”

Eyes suddenly becoming weighted with sadness, a sadness Lestrade had never seen in the ice man’s eyes. Mycroft observed a medical poster just above Lestrade’s right shoulder - distancing himself from what he was about to share.

“He overdosed.”

  
Two words. Two words were enough for Lestrade’s mind to puzzle everything together and for his heart to stop his rhythmic beat. He had known Sherlock long enough to see firsthand the rainclouds that trailed closely behind him throughout his life. Had seen firsthand when Sherlock was at his worst. Lestrade and Mycroft had been the only ones to know the details of Sherlock’s more volatile and punishing years, and kept that information safely to themselves. Being the only ones privy to the reality of the situation, they had developed an unspoken connection and understanding in their mutual care for Sherlock. 

He had met Sherlock ten years ago now. The man he had been ten years ago was a coarse shadow of the man he was now. Granted, he could be the biggest asshole at times, but that was preferable to watching him burn from the inside, flames licking at both his skin and mind. 

Change had come a little under five years ago, with Mycroft’s suggestion that Sherlock find a flatmate. He had threatened him with rehab, which to Sherlock seemed the worst fate of all: _a place filled with boring, sad people, in which the staff are employed to pity me? No, thank you._ Lestrade remembered those words almost exactly as an irritated - but sober - Sherlock had complained to him over the corpse of a murdered politician. Apparently the five times he’d been forced there already hadn’t given him a particularly good impression. Lestrade remembered, almost fondly, attempting to convince him that rehab was more than that, only to be met with a particularly cruel deduction about the state of his marriage. 

Lestrade would never allow Sherlock onto a case if he showed up high. That was their deal. It stopped people finding out, and also gave Sherlock a particularly strong incentive, he hated being deprived of evidence. Hated being aware of a crime but not being able to solve it himself. Over the course of the next two weeks, Sherlock had turned up to probably ten times as many cases as he normally would, which Lestrade noticed significantly aggravated Donovan and Anderson. Lestrade gladly listened to Sherlock’s whining about his overbearing brother and his command to find a flatmate - _what, so he can spy on me?_

The threat of rehab seemed to incite Sherlock’s desire to remain sober for two full weeks. Two full weeks of sobriety and Sherlock’s persistent presence at whatever crime scene Lestrade happened to be at. 

Then by some miracle, John Watson arrived on the crime scene. The two weeks turned into a month. Then an entire year. It had been different since John Watson had shot that cab driver to save Sherlock’s life - he had pretended to not know about that detail, but he had seen the way Sherlock’s face had softened when he made the connection that the military man he had been describing was in fact his new flatmate. 

Day by day Sherlock had changed, his temperamental attitude had become warmer, kinder. Lestrade saw him laugh honestly for the first time and Sherlock morphed into more of an asset than he had ever been at crime scenes. The painful weight in his chest, the overwhelming responsibility he felt for Sherlock’s wellbeing, and the knowledge that he alone could provide him with that positive incentive he needed, had all dissipated slowly with time. He had relaxed and let himself settle into watching Sherlock learning to enjoy life with a sincerity and intensity unprecedented to him. Everyday he saw a new joy in his eyes, the sunny twinkle of someone who had never experienced childhood and was only now finding out what it meant to be happy. 

Of course there had been setbacks. Bouts of melancholy were inevitable for someone who had for so long known nothing else. He’d go quiet, wouldn’t want to go on cases and would curl into himself. John, Lestrade could tell, didn’t understand what it was; he clearly seemed to believe Sherlock’s arrogance and bloodymindedness made him this way - that he was just being a prat. Lestrade never told him, he was almost positive Sherlock didn’t want John to know who he been before. 

Which is why John had been so angry when he had found him in a drug den last December. Why John had raged quietly at Sherlock’s small overdose on the plane only a few weeks later. John would never know the full extent of what he knew, and what Mycroft knew better. Would only know the Sherlock he’d met in January five years ago: a superbly intelligent man with an adrenaline filled profession. Unlike Mycroft and Lestrade, he couldn’t possibly begin to imagine anything else.

* * *

The hospital was overcrowded. John was stifled by the waves of workers and patients swirling around him as human tornadoes. He’d signed up for this, this was his way of life and it was no different to the chaos on the battlefield but this was almost unheard of in this setting. The medical world was understaffed and underfunded and the community was struggling, scrambling for a workforce and funding. Everybody was maintaining a feeling of calm within the hectic tides of the hospitals environment.

Acclimatised to walking the path of violence, of danger and imminent death, John Watson knew how to handle himself in high pressure situations. Some of the other workers, especially the younger ones, were strained from the late shifts and pressure that came with the job; John could only hope that they would persevere within the career, it seemed only too easy right now to see them dropping from the stress like flies - making everything all the more difficult for the rest of them.

He had five minutes to kill. Five treasured minutes. Taking out his phone, his chest turned to lead as he saw the notification jeering at him from the screen. 59 missed calls. 12 texts. All from Mary.

John didn’t even pause to check the messages before he dialed Mary, fingers fumbling over the numbers in a flustered panic. She picked up almost immediately.

“Mary? Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

“Husband! Nice to hear from you, but I seem to have gone into labour,” John almost dropped his phone. His heart thudded in his chest in a strange mix of blind terror and joy. Two weeks early.

“I’ll be there as quick as I can. How are the contractions? How are you feeling?”

“No, no. Stay where you are,” Mary’s voice was breathless, but John knew her well enough to detect the mirth in her pained tone, “I’m coming to you, I’m almost there. Oh, don’t look like that - yes I know the face you’re making right now - I know we planned for the local hospital but I figured since you weren’t answering I’d come to you. Quite convenient since you work there, really. Kate’s taking me, I’ll be there in ten.”

Mary’s delighted monologue was broken by what sounded to John as a particularly painful contraction, but he grinned madly in spite of himself. He was going to be a father. Nothing could possibly ruin his mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh i do love a bit of dramatic irony.   
> the song is pressure by the 1975 :)


	14. Ice Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was the reverse. Ever since they were children, Sherlock resented his ability to notice every quiver of movement, every sound or beam of light at once. Mycroft used to believe this made Sherlock stupid, that his mind couldn’t keep up the way that his own could, but he quickly came to realise everything to Sherlock was amplified tenfold. What Mycroft would register systematically, storing each part logically in his head to be processed, Sherlock’s would register all at once; every noise, every light, every sensation could easily overpower his brother. It was moments like these that Mycroft could understand, if only slightly, what that must be like for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally delivering what has been asked for :) you're most welcome ;)

{No one ever says

All the love you give might not be enough

Broke my heart in two a couple times

Before it hurt too much}

* * *

Mycroft had been foolish to ever hope he wouldn’t have to sit on another plastic chair again, waiting for medical professionals to keep his little brother from dying once again. Had been foolish to think that this was over.

He’d had his warnings, and he had dismissed them. Dismissed the signs that had been so glaringly clear, so blindingly obvious. Five months ago, Sherlock was found in a drug den and he’d been stupid to adhere to the lie that it had purely been for stopping Magnussen. Three months ago, Sherlock had dealt with his own departure with a list consisting of nothing but a recipe for his own death. Today, Sherlock had finally fallen back into the swirling darkness that had consumed him from within for so much of his early life. Yet he had written off the warning alarms; he had believed his younger brother’s elaborate excuses. Sentiment, he scoffed. It always got the better of him whenever Sherlock was concerned. It shouldn’t have come to this. He had failed once again.

There had been no list. 

A terrible question rose to the forefront of Mycroft’s mind at the absence of the list. Even Sherlock knew better than to inject unknown substances into his bloodstream twice over without a list, and so the question burned on and grew stronger with each passing hour. Had it been deliberate? 

The list had been Mycroft’s comfort, proof that Sherlock wished to be rescued, and Mycroft had been glad to rescue him as often as required. He was more than happy to allow himself to fulfill the role he had designed for himself: protector as well as brother. But when Sherlock resisted that, when Sherlock didn’t give Mycroft the tools that allowed him to come to his aid, Mycroft’s heart clenched and churned. It settled, wretched and befouled, in his gut, growing uglier with every hour he waited outside of the hospital room.

They had tried to get him to leave, suggested that it may be beneficial to him to go home and return in the early morning but Mycroft refused their recommendation. He had no control of this situation. This was a regular hospital rather than those in which he could do and say as he pleased and Mycroft was utterly in the dark. For the first time since he had received his high-ranking position within the government, Mycroft was unsure. They wouldn’t update him, wouldn’t even tell him what they were doing. With no strings to pull the only way he could have maximum control within the situation was to wait. All he knew is he was moving Sherlock to one of his private hospitals as soon as possible.

* * *

Mycroft was exhausted, but not because of the sleep he was lacking. It was the continual thoughts overworking and dwelling on the same themes. Both he and his brother shared their above average intellect, their minds would not rest and would constantly register and analyse every available bit of data that may cross their paths. Their minds were faucets without the means to be shut off. It never bothered Mycroft, he saw it as an advantage and a tool to be honed. 

Sherlock was the reverse. Ever since they were children, Sherlock resented his ability to notice every quiver of movement, every sound or beam of light at once. Mycroft used to believe this made Sherlock stupid, that his mind couldn’t keep up the way that his own could, but he quickly came to realise everything to Sherlock was amplified tenfold. What Mycroft would register systematically, storing each part logically in his head to be processed, Sherlock’s would register all at once; every noise, every light, every sensation could easily overpower his brother. It was moments like these that Mycroft could understand, if only slightly, what that must be like for him. 

While the unwanted thoughts running rampant throughout his mind left him threadbare, he assumed it was nothing in comparison to how Sherlock perceived each and every one of the human senses. For years, _this_ had been Sherlock’s solution to the over stimulation and the misery that seemed to trail in his wake. Mycroft couldn’t begin to understand that, the reasons he had that had brought him to this. He only knew that he had to be there anchoring him before he went too far out to sea.

“Mr Holmes?” 

Mycroft composed himself as the face of a doctor came into focus. Mid-forties, poor sleep schedule, recently divorced.

“He’s awake and stable,” he smiled at Mycroft with those tired eyes and whitened lips, “You can see him now, although he’s not really speaking to anyone so we’re not sure if-” That half-sincere smile was gone, as his eyes flicked nervously upwards, determining Mycroft’s reaction. 

His brother was alive and would remain that way as long as he was kept here. He was sure to complain, to whine and gripe and protest that this was a mistake and it would never happen again, but it was nothing Mycroft wasn’t accustomed to, that Mycroft didn’t know how to handle.

“No, it’s fine. That does sound fairly typical,” he stood and straighten his posture and waistcoat, “I suppose I should talk to him now.” Nodding at the doctor in acknowledgment, hoping that would count as some form of gratitude since he had no idea how to express it in any other way, Mycroft strode into the room with that same feigned indifference that had given him the moniker ‘Ice Man’.

* * *

The room was empty and quiet save for the whirring of the machines hooked into his brother and their steady but droning hum. Sherlock didn’t move when Mycroft entered. Didn’t move when Mycroft pulled out a chair and sat beside him. Keeping his face turned away and his body very still, Sherlock pretended to not notice - as if Mycroft would believe that. They remained that way for minutes on end, both men waiting for the other to act. To take the first move.

Mycroft pounced first, prefaced with a drawn out sigh and an extended pause that rang devastatingly through the murmuring silence.

“I thought we had agreed to put all of this behind us.”

No response, not even a movement. He pressed on.

“Might this have something to do with John Watson and his prolonged absence?”

Mycroft watched his brother visibly stiffen, a concrete husk covering his body and spewing Mycroft with its contempt. That told Mycroft everything he needed to know. Despite Sherlock knowing almost as much as he did about revealing human behaviourisms, he was incredibly easy for Mycroft to read and it was absurd to him that the others within his life didn’t pick up upon these glaring subtleties. Lestrade had come the closest. Perhaps, as it did for the detective inspector, it came with time; perhaps John simply needed more time to effectively read his brother the way he could.

“You have been exceedingly surreptitious this time around, brother mine. Though I would not let that go to your head, I do not intend it as a compliment. How long has this been going on for?”

“You were slow,” The reply was unexpected, but welcomed, even if it was in the form of an insult. His voice was hoarse, and Mycroft suspected he probably hadn’t had any water in at least 24 hours, most probably longer. Mycroft allowed the silence back into the room, prompting his brother to continue. “February third.”

It had been well over a month, in which Mycroft had not spotted his own brother’s program of self-destruction. He had had more than enough time and yet it had somehow slipped under the radar and Mycroft had failed him. 

“And nobody knew?”

A small shake of the head.

“Well, it’s very early in the morning, I expect I should let you rest. I promised your detective friend that I would text him when he could come see you. I trust that’s okay with you, brother mine?”

Mycroft was already putting his chair away as Sherlock made a noise that only be interpreted as reluctant agreement.

“Doctor Watson will also be informed in due course, I will make sure of it”

“No!” Mycroft turned back from the door, perplexed. He waited as his brother shifted to sit and face him, wanting to determine the source of his outburst.

“No,” Sherlock reiterated firmly, “You won’t tell him. He isn’t to know.”

“I hardly think that’s wise, brother mine.”

“I don’t care. Don’t tell him,” he said, pouting with the same spirit he had held as a young child, “Please.”

Wearied, Mycroft exhaled slowly before giving a curt nod to show his brother he would comply to what he asked of him. It was all too reminiscent of Sherlock begging him not to reveal his habits to their parents only twenty or so years ago. He had of course blabbed, as Sherlock so articulately had put it, and some part of him still felt some unfounded, lingering guilt from that choice despite knowing it was the best option.

Dithering at the door for a moment, the room fell into a quiet lull. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, as children they could sit for hours in silence together and it was even pleasant in some ways.

“You called me honeybee,” Sherlock said, small voice loud in the broken silence. His eyebrow was quirked slightly, whether in amusement or puzzlement or something completely different, Mycroft couldn’t quite determine. Those tired blue-green watched him contemplatively, it was a gaze that was all softened corners and fondness and Mycroft nodded slowly - embarrassed at Sherlock having heard him use the old nickname he given him in childhood.

Something aching but unassuming was lodged uncomfortably in his throat, he cleared it sharply.

“Yes, I did. Sorry if that was-”

“No,” said Sherlock. His voice was cutting but the knife seemed to be held at his own throat, not at Mycroft’s own, “It was… good. I liked it.” Sherlock’s eyes for a brief moment reminded Mycroft of that age-old twinkle it had held when a chubbier and much younger Sherlock had successfully balanced an impressive number of bricks. Or when an older Sherlock had looked at John Watson that first night in Brixton.

“I see,” Mycroft said, fighting the pressure at the back of his eyes, “Well then, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll see you later, brother mine.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but as Mycroft left the room he couldn’t hold back the ghost of a genuine smile that crept onto his face for just a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE MYCROFT AND SHERLOCK. thats all i have to say thanks  
> the song is almost home by mxmtoon (which might i add is just a wonderful song with a wonderful vibe. its beautiful and i think encompasses a nostalgia associated with childhood and familial love <3)


	15. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dead on his feet, John sat in the remarkably plush chair beside Mary who was now fully asleep. His daughter nestled completely still and peaceful against his chest, John felt his heart seizing at the undiluted love that brimmed within it. Every parent had always told him about this, the immediate unconditional love for your newborn, but John had never truly believed them - had thought it impossible to love that quickly. Now he could see how right they all were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel mean for this,,, but not enough to stop. sorry john yikes  
> also!!! folklore is out and ive listened to whole thing almost consistently (i think im on loop 50 something last i checked on my scrobbler thing) and damn does that album Hit Different. i would 100% recommend especially since so much of this i can apply to this fic and will most likely be using a lot of the lines in future chapters

{He smiles politely back at you

You stare politely right on through

Some sort of window to your right

As he goes left, and you stay right

Between the lines of fear and blame

You begin to wonder why you came}

* * *

John Watson cradled his swaddled and sleeping daughter to his chest. Mary watched utterly exhausted from her bed, her face still twisted in pain but radiating fondness at the sight of them together. It was a miracle that the hospital had managed to spare staff to assist in the birth, John knew only too well the extra pressure this would have put on the workforce. He didn’t have time to feel guilty now, it was a little past 1 in the morning and both he and Mary were exhausted. The hospital whirled around them, and the nurse had left the room as soon as possible. She was very young and had seemed apologetic, but John understood she was needed elsewhere and she was clearly was comfortable leaving in the knowledge that John was a medical professional and so could monitor Mary’s recovery.

Dead on his feet, John sat in the remarkably plush chair beside Mary who was now fully asleep. His daughter nestled completely still and peaceful against his chest, John felt his heart seizing at the undiluted love that brimmed within it. Every parent had always told him about this, the immediate unconditional love for your newborn, but John had never truly believed them - had thought it impossible to love that quickly. Now he could see how right they all were.

In that moment, the earth stopped spinning and his world was lulled into a gentle explosion of tenderness. He swore in that moment that nothing in this world would ever hurt the small form pressed against his beating heart, as their breaths unified as one. John’s heavy eyes drooped and he fell in a warm, contented slumber in which the world had never felt more perfect.

* * *

Standing in line for the coffee machine, Lestrade’s foot nervously tapped at the linoleum, head swimming with the events of yesterday afternoon. It still felt surreal to him, head splintered in disbelief that he was here once again. He had been here so many times before, but he thought that was history. A painful past.

Mycroft had texted Lestrade that visitors were now allowed. That Sherlock had survived, and was no longer in any immediate danger. He had said he would wait for Lestrade, which was slightly unsettling but mostly welcomed. Lestrade didn’t particularly want to be alone in this.

Lestrade’s first shift started at seven, but he had given Donovan a heads up that he may find himself delayed. Being Donovan, she had asked why and Lestrade had simply gone with ‘family crisis’ which had silenced her quite sufficiently. He and Mycroft had gone through too much trouble keeping Sherlock’s habits from the eyes of the police force and the public eye to reveal it now. 

His words to Donovan weren’t entirely untrue. Sherlock was as close to family as anyone; Lestrade felt as close to him as he did to his own brothers. Granted, Sherlock was the biggest pain in his ass at times but he loved him. Cared for him. Felt responsible for him. And he had failed in that.

“Greg?”

Lestrade spun on his heel, mildly startled by the voice at the back on his head, and saw none other than John Watson smiling inquisitively at him. Of course John was here, Lestrade didn’t expect anything less. Sherlock and John were best friends and of course he had been informed and came to be here this early, before his shift started. Mildly relieved at not having to brave Mycroft alone, Lestrade relaxed slightly and managed to match John’s smile. This was a different John Watson, though. If Lestrade had predicted John’s reaction, he would have most likely thought it would be angry, incensed and set aflame. But here he was smiling placidly, and with a genuine twinkle in his eye.

  
“John. It’s so good to see you, it’s been a while.”

Both men held steaming brown paper cups of coffee. The normalcy of the exchange made Lestrade’s stomach churn, this shouldn’t feel so average given the circumstances of their meeting.

“Yes. Yeah it has, hasn’t it?” John looked away, clasping the back of his neck in a wordless apology, “Why are you here so early in the morning, if you don’t mind me asking?”

A wordless sound passed through Lestrade’s lips as the question imploded within his gut. John didn’t know. 

The stabbing realisation that he would be expected to be the one to break the news to John, since Mycroft clearly hadn’t said anything. He hated him sometimes and if it weren’t for the very real possibility he may be thrown into prison, he was sure he would have punched him in the nose by now. How could he leave John, Sherlock’s best friend, in the dark knowing the way he would most likely take it.

“Greg?”

Realising he had left John’s question entirely unanswered, Lestrade fixed his eyes upon John hoping he would see the unspoken apology written across his face. He took a prolonged sip of his coffee before putting his hand on John’s shoulder as gently as possible and sighing inwardly.

“John,” Lestrade watched as John waited for Lestrade to continue, “Are you working right now?” Lestrade asked, not wanting to disrupt a potential shift.

“Working?” John asked before fully comprehending that question; as far as Lestrade knew, it was entirely probable that he may have been working, “Oh. No. No, I’m not working.” The corners of John’s mouth tugged upwards in spite of themselves, and he looked at Lestrade with that same glittering in his eye. 

Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Lestrade prompted for John to continue - to explain. John grinned at him, anticipatory of the words that were primed for leaving his lips, he carded a hand promptly through his silvery hair.

“Well, Mary had our baby. Just a few hours ago actually.”

Oh.

The exuberance John had bubbled around him was the antithesis to Lestrade’s personal moral crisis. Two entirely separate entities joined only by the information Lestrade carried like lead in his chest. Information he felt obliged to share with John; the very same John that had just been made a father, whose infectious joy rippled like waves lightening the weight in his heart very slightly.

“Congratulations mate,” Lestrade found himself saying, societal cues dictating his immediate response, “That’s brilliant, I’m so happy for you.” He managed a smile - he wasn’t sure how convincing it was but it was all he could do to try.

“I was about to head back there now, actually. So, I won’t keep you.” John finished his coffee, tossed it into the bin at their side and moved to walk away. 

Time slowed. Lestrade knew, in his heart of hearts, that he had to say something. He felt he owed it to John to amend for Mycroft’s decision to have kept him in the dark for this long.

“Er, John actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.” John’s attention was immediately upon him, his smile drooping nervously, sensing the foreboding in his tone. Lestrade cleared his throat, willing himself to continue.

“What is it? Oh god, are you okay?”

“What?” John’s concern for him caught Lestrade temporarily off-guard, “Yes, yeah I’m okay. I’m fine.” Relief sagged from John’s chest as his body visibly loosened, and a hint of his smile returned. Lestrade saw this change, and hated himself silently for what he was about to say.

“It’s not me actually,” he paused as John’s hairs bristled, waiting, “It’s- Well- It’s Sherlock. He- Mycroft found him yesterday afternoon. I don’t really know the situation as of now, but I’m sure it’ll be okay. It’s been worse.” Lestrade’s words were a flurried torrent, jumbled and barely coherent.

Stiffening, John clenched his fists and gazed at the linoleum for a few moments before he donned the armour Lestrade had seen so many times. He was becoming a soldier again, putting up the necessary barriers to function efficiently and without allowing his emotions to rule. There was something incredibly Sherlock-like about that transformation, except Lestrade knew Sherlock would never lower those barriers. Or at least not to him.

“What happened? Was it a case, did something come back to bite him? I kept telling him this would happen eventually, that somebody would hate him enough to target him specifically, but he never listened to me. He-” 

John trailed off after clocking that Lestrade had grown silent and was only looking at him sadly. Lestrade didn’t know what he had expected really. He had to keep reminding himself that he and John knew two different Sherlocks. John’s Sherlock was work-orientated, arrogant and brilliant, somebody who absolutely would dismiss warning and pick fights he couldn’t win. But the Sherlock that was now lying somewhere in this hospital wasn’t that same man. This was the same man that Lestrade had first met all those years ago. Still as arrogant and brilliant, but desperately unhappy… and lonely.

“I don’t know the full details of it, Mycroft didn’t say much, but he,” Lestrade could feel the tightness enclosing his throat in clammy coils, “He overdosed, and-”

Lestrade stopped at he saw John’s shoulders turn rigid. His chest rose and fell to a sharp rhythm, but otherwise he could have passed for a statue. Perfectly still, coiling his emotions into the defensive shell he was constructing. 

“Why?”

It was little more than a whisper. A pointed hissing breath, asking an impossible-to-answer question. Instinctively Lestrade reached out a comforting hand towards John’s shoulder - a natural compulsion to comfort and console - but John tightened further and Lestrade’s approaching hand and so he pulled back and allowed him to process for a few moments.

Lestrade cleared his throat quickly. It seemed to echo through the spacious room, filling out the corners of his discomfort.

“Mycroft texted me that I could go visit him… if you want to-?” Lestrade knew he didn’t need to finish. John understood.

“Later,” he said bluntly. “I need to go, take care of something. Sorry.”

With that, the solider marched away from Lestrade, poised and ready for battle. He called the room number after John’s disappearing form, and hoped the army doctor’s new raging walls would allow him to listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway happy rosie day!! (i pencilled in her birthday as monday march 30th, 2015 because timeline stuff matters to me seeing as the show is so bad at that)  
> the song is the classic 'how to save a life' by the fray


	16. Blunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade’s heart plummeted through his chest to his stomach. The knowledge of what he done churned in his gut as it settled there, a new ingrained infestation of guilt and remorse. His eyes dropped to observing the laces on his shoes, feeling the eyes of both Holmeses burning into the back of his scalp, but this time their interrogative stare was more than simply uncomfortable. It was pervasive. Suffocating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lestrade realises he did a booboo. oops.

{And maybe I don't quite know what to say

But I'm here in your doorway

I just wanted you to know

That this is me trying}

* * *

John didn’t visit Sherlock that morning. Or the morning after, as Mycroft had him transferred to whatever secret hospital he had available to him. If Lestrade wanted to visit he had to be picked up in a car. Windows blacked out for secrecy as well as the division between him and the driver was opaque, frosted glass. His senses were blocked entirely, yet it was somewhat of a comfort that it was a little more civil than having a bag placed over his head as they did in the many movies he watched. 

It was the evening of the third day and Lestrade had been picked up at his house and driven to the hospital after his shift. This had become almost routine for him, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he still bothered; Sherlock barely spoke to him but somehow he still felt he owed it to him to simply be there. 

The hospital never failed to surprise him in how noticeably small it was. The interior reminded him more of a fancy, white, linoleum-floored hotel, there were no trademark medical posters or waiting areas. Lestrade was comfortable finding his way around without assistance, which worked since he rarely saw anybody at work in the empty building anyway. Disconcertingly, he only ever saw Mycroft and Sherlock and the occasional nurse. He wasn’t sure how secret this all was supposed to be but it gave him the creeps.

As he approached the panelled wooden door, Lestrade overheard snippets of tense conversation beyond it. Stepping away from the doors windows, Lestrade debated his next action, wishing not to intrude on something he should not be involved with.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Sherlock. I will keep you here as long as I see fit.”

“Isn’t that always the way? You don’t have to mother me, Mycroft. I told you, it was a lapse in my judgement and a _mistake_.”

“You also said you had been consistently using for well over a month before, well,” Mycroft paused, and Lestrade could feel the discomfort through the door. “Detective Inspector could you please stop loitering behind the corner and come in please?”

Swearing under his breath, Lestrade sheepishly cracked the door open and entered upon a scene rippling with tension and stifled resentment like desert heat. He nodded swiftly in Mycroft’s direction and turned to Sherlock who was sitting now with his classic evasive grimace - the grimace that told you he was not willing to compromise. Dampened by obvious fatigue, Lestrade’s only instinct was the want to embrace the detective. He wasn’t sure where that instinct came from; naturally he wasn’t a hugger but with Sherlock, who could speak far more eloquently, he often felt his own words couldn’t adequately show the care Lestrade truly felt. Resisting that instinct, knowing it probably wouldn’t be appreciated unannounced, Lestrade simply pulled out a chair and sat, uncomfortably aware of the two pairs of eyes watching him with the intensity of hawks.

“So,” he began, attention focussed on Sherlock, “How have you been?”

Gaze disparaging, Sherlock cocked his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. 

“Awful, obviously. I so hope for the sake of London this isn’t how you question your suspects - with witless questions and frivolities?” 

Hands raised in mock defeat, Lestrade couldn’t help but be glad of the insult, despite it being especially pointed, even for Sherlock. It meant he was behaving as normally as could be expected of the circumstances. 

This was Sherlock’s second day of the suboxone treatment. The idea was, as Mycroft had explained to him countless times in the past, to taper and manage the craving with the suboxone. Lestrade didn’t understand it completely, but he knew enough to understand it was a miserable and uncomfortable procedure and that it didn’t eliminate withdrawal symptoms, but rather minimised the severity. By Sherlock’s current demeanour and his meager grasp on how it all worked, Lestrade could tell that the stronger withdrawal symptoms were not yet present but were close on the horizon. He could tell Sherlock knew this much as well, and Lestrade could safely assume he was already dreading it.

“Has John been here yet?” Lestrade asked to the room, wondering if the doctor had processed the initial shock yet. For the most part, Lestrade couldn’t really blame the man; he had become closer to Sherlock in two years than Lestrade in ten. He had no way of knowing the extent of Sherlock’s past sufferings - knew only the (mostly) sober man he had met and had known since.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a glance that communicated something unreadable to Lestrade’s eye. Mycroft met Lestrade’s question swiftly on his brother’s behalf.

“We had actually agreed to keep Doctor Watson in the dark about this, Detective Inspector. If you could not mention this to him, we would be grateful.”

Lestrade’s heart plummeted through his chest to his stomach. The knowledge of what he done churned in his gut as it settled there, a new ingrained infestation of guilt and remorse. His eyes dropped to observing the laces on his shoes, feeling the eyes of both Holmeses burning into the back of his scalp, but this time their interrogative stare was more than simply uncomfortable. It was pervasive. Suffocating.

“What?” Sherlock demanded, voice rising slightly. He could sense it, could read Lestrade’s discomfort as easily as an open book. Lying to him would be futile and stupid on his part.

“See, the thing is… the first time I came to visit - on Monday - I met John there. I assumed he was there for the same reason as me, but-”

“He doesn’t work Monday morning…” Sherlock’s almost whispered interjection infected the room, lulling it to silence.

“Yes, well, turns out he was there for a different reason. He- Well, he had his baby.” Lestrade flashed a muted smile, he felt he owed it to John to at least uphold some remnants of the joy of childbirth, despite the tension seeping in from every corner and crevice in the room.

“Baby.” Sherlock echoed, almost absently. It seemed as though he was no longer aware of the others in the room, and was grappling with this new information entirely alone.

“Did you tell him, then?” Mycroft said, cuttingly.

“Yes.”

* * *

Sensing his brother’s rising discomfort and hidden fear, Mycroft quickly thanked Lestrade for coming and asked for him to leave. Lestrade complied without complaint, now aware of the strain he had unintentionally placed on Sherlock’s nerves. Promising to update him on any interesting cases he may come across during the week, Lestrade left the way he came.

Sherlock was very quiet, and Mycroft could almost visibly see his thoughts rapid firing from his synapses as he sat staring at the bed covers, dejected and alone. Bridging the growing distance, Mycroft reached out and placed a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder - allowing Mycroft to let him know he was there, without the need to distract his thought processes. Almost surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t flinch or pull away at the contact as Mycroft would have predicted. Instead he leant into the contact, an unspoken acceptance of the comfort being offered.

“I need to explain,” Sherlock said at last, rising from whatever depths of his thoughts he had submerged himself within. He met Mycroft’s eyes with such fierce severity, Mycroft knew it unwise to even attempt a counter argument. “I need to talk to John. He _can’t_ hate me for this. I need him to understand.”

The vigour with which he spoke added a gravity to his words that Mycroft was even slightly staggered. He knew what it meant, this desperation, and he almost felt pity for his brother, despite knowing that would be precisely what Sherlock would despise the most.

“Okay, well, we could have Doctor Watson come in next Monday with Lestrade, that way he doesn’t have to-”

“No.” 

“No?”

“It has to be sooner.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, exasperated, “You know how this works, what symptoms you’ll have from tomorrow to at least Saturday - maybe even Sunday. I did suggest that we didn’t keep him in dark, so he could visit before your discomfort peaks. Surely you wouldn’t want John to-”

“Don’t tell me what I want, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, shooting a withering look at his brother, “Besides, John’s a doctor, he’s fine. I just need to talk to him.”

“If you insist, brother mine, when would you suggest?”

“Tomorrow.”

Mycroft met Sherlock’s ruinous stare with an equally contemptuous gaze, an attempt to communicate the illogicality of the suggestion. They remained frozen in that moment until Mycroft finally relented his gaze in a mutely waving a white flag. He knew his brother was too stubborn to be reasoned with in these situations; he’d always been stubbornly adamant when he was sure of something. This, he felt, was more important to Sherlock than he let on.

Mycroft nodded.

“Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kind of love the second half of this chapter which is rare. when i was reading it back just now i got into it even though i literally wrote it myself lmfao
> 
> the song is this is me trying by taylor swift (it doesnt necessarily fit this chapter but sherlocks imaginings of the next chapters. whether that'll be reality or not,, well)


	17. Rising Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John looked at his wife with those remorseful blue eyes, and Mary felt as though she didn’t deserve them. She could have stopped this, could have prevented Sherlock from nearing death’s door, prevented John from feeling this pain - this guilt - if only she’d mentioned it sooner. Instead she had been selfish. Valued her secrets over Sherlock’s life and John’s overall wellbeing. The worst past was, she didn’t regret it. She would make that choice again if she had to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am once again saying that marys character was ruined in the show,, shes so so interesting and couldve been such an excellent morally grey addition but instead s4 had to immediately kill her whoop tee doo  
> this chapter is twice as long as they usually are, there was, um, a lot to cover. um, yeah... enjoy >:)

{ My only one

My kingdom come undone

My broken drum

You have beaten my heart }

* * *

Mycroft had initially forbidden Lestrade to visit in the three days during the peak of Sherlock’s suboxone tapering process. He knew that Sherlock would have rather kept it private at all costs, and had made that decision for him, but now it seemed he knew his brother less and less by the day. Not only did Sherlock demand both Lestrade and John’s presence, but he demanded it during a period he knew would be hardest for him physically. Mycroft wanted to question why Lestrade was also required, but he trusted his brother had his reasons - after all Lestrade had come to play a prominent role in Sherlock’s life and his brother had become exceedingly sentimental in recent years.

He arranged for both John and Lestrade to be picked up at noon the next day in separate chauffeured cars and taken directly to this hospital. Not bothering to call John in advance, Mycroft figured there’d be less resistance if he was put on the spot - though he hoped that resistance would not have been in question anyway. Lestrade was made aware and he, unlike Mycroft, expressed surprise at being wanted - “I only just saw him yesterday? What use could I possibly be?” - but agreed to come all the same.

Thursday afternoon came sluggishly. Mycroft had been preoccupied conferring with various governmental powers, and was anxious to be updated on Sherlock’s condition. It was a necessary evil to keep him hospitalised, despite how much he knew his brother hated the constraints, scheduling and coddling. Even after everything Sherlock had promised, Mycroft didn’t know how much he could trust his brother to be on his own.

* * *

John was busy quieting a crying baby as the doorbell rang. Tucking the plastic daisy he had been playing with behind his ear, he waited to hear Mary’s telltale footsteps approaching the front door - checking she had it under control. When he heard them he resumed playing with Rosie, who halted her tears and began snuffling into the blanket swaddled around her. She was only 3 days old, but John could have sworn she was the brightest, most beautiful child to have ever lived. And that wasn’t bias, that was a proven fact.

He was barely aware of the anxious muttering at the front door. Love and joy was nestled gently into his chest and it sung louder than any other noise could attempt. It was only when Mary appeared in the doorway, bristling with nervous energy, that the joy dissipated slightly into the corners of the room. 

Mary was still exhausted from the birth; dark circles ringed her eyes and her loose hair and clothes showed a tired peacefulness. Only now that peace was heavily disrupted as Mary looked nauseated as she trembled and leant against the door frame. 

“Sherlock,” she said, voice calm but body betraying the anxiety she held, “He-”

“I know.” John said bluntly, turning back to cooing at his newborn.

“You knew?” A silence fell about the room.

“Yes. I met Lestrade when I went to get coffee. On the day of our daughter’s birth.” Bitterness laced John’s words and Mary could immediately detect their root. John felt cheated of what should have been a perfect day; cheated out of experiencing one perfect and normal life event because of Sherlock Holmes. Again.

“He couldn’t have known, John. He didn’t plan it that way.”

“I know,” John retorted quickly through bared teeth. He sighed, calming himself. “I know. I hate that I’m blaming him, but I just didn’t know what to do - how to process something like that. So I just didn’t think about it. I pushed it aside, ignored it. I should’ve known better. I’m sorry.”

John looked at his wife with those remorseful blue eyes, and Mary felt as though she didn’t deserve them. She could have stopped this, could have prevented Sherlock from nearing death’s door, prevented John from feeling this pain - this guilt - if only she’d mentioned it sooner. Instead she had been selfish. Valued her secrets over Sherlock’s life and John’s overall wellbeing. The worst past was, she didn’t regret it. She would make that choice again if she had to. 

There was one thing that Mary knew for certain, though: that her secret was in danger. The man at the door - she assumed one of Mycroft’s - had requested only John’s presence. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Her deal with Sherlock depended on her keeping the secret of his drug abuse from John, and he wouldn’t reveal the ugly core at the centre of Mary’s current life with John. Now that John knew Sherlock’s secret, Sherlock no longer had any reason to keep hers. She had to go with him.

Stepping tentatively towards John and their happily gurgling baby, Mary placed a hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay. I understand. Just let’s go now, one of Mycroft’s men will take us.”

“What about Rosie?” John asked.

Shit. What kind of a mother is so wrapped up in her own woes and strife to forget the wellbeing of her own daughter? 

“I’m sure we can take her,” Mary offered, “Maybe we could get Mycroft to hold her.”

At that, John laughed in spite of himself. A true and genuine belly laugh that lifted the corners of Mary’s own mouth as she laughed along with him.

“Yeah, well, I’d love to see that,” John chuckled, tickling Rosie gently under her chin. In the lapse of silence it felt, for a moment, like all was right with the world. A small bubble of family solace amidst the wreckage of lies and tragedy.

“I don’t deserve you.” John said after a while. Mary hated the love he had in his eyes for her. Only she knew how wrong he was, how quickly that love could shift to resentment if John ever found out. So she only smiled and turned her back.

* * *

Lestrade was outside Sherlock’s room when all three Watsons arrived at the hospital. Clearly unsure of how to address the baby swaddled in Mary’s arms, Lestrade just nodded slowly at both parents and smiled. Something, Mary could see, was preoccupying his mind and it didn’t take a genius to realise that Lestrade had already been talking to Sherlock. 

“Hey,” Lestrade said carefully. “She’s beautiful.” The smile that accompanied the compliment was genuine this time, as Lestrade’s eyes twinkled as he peeked in at the nestled and sleeping baby.

John smiled back at Lestrade, and shifted uncomfortably.

“Look, Greg, I just wanted to say sorry for last time I-”

“John, mate, it’s okay. Really. I can hardly blame you, it never gets easier hearing that. I mean you can imagine how confused I was when Mycroft barged into that poor bloke’s hospital room, but I really should’ve known,” Lestrade didn’t notice the shift in John’s face, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as he went still. “This has happened often enough for me to have guessed…” Lestrade added sadly. Contemplatively. He looked up at John, and clocking the change in his demeanour he spoke again nervously, a man tiptoeing around a bomb. “You okay?”

“What did you mean when you said you met Mycroft in some guys hospital room?” John said stiffly, sucking all the air from the air. Rosie gurgled happily in her sleep, the only one unaware of the tension that had just settled like fallen snow on the hallway floor.

Mary immediately detected Lestrade’s mind replaying his own words, determining how and why John was suddenly on edge.

“You mean, you don’t know about the accident?” Lestrade offered tensely.

Accident. Mary’s head spun with that word, dreading what Lestrade was about to tell them - and most of all how John would react. If Sherlock had been injured more than he was aware, she was sure he would never forgive himself.

John shook his head, shoulders rigid at his sides.

“Well, long story short,” Lestrade clasped the back of his neck in discomfort, “This guy swerved and hit another car, because Sherlock had managed to find himself in the middle of a road.”

Not saying a word, John’s body language went from tense and nervous to what Mary could only identify as anger. His fists balled into themselves, as though he were trying to squeeze that rage from his body. This had not been the outcome she had been expecting, but she knew it could manifest to be just as detrimental to him - and possibly those around him.

“Casualties?” 

Caught off guard at the question, Lestrade winced at the sudden understanding of John’s anger. 

“Nobody was killed, both the guy who swerved and the kids in the back of the other car were practically unharmed as far as I’m aware. The other driver is still in hospital, though,” Lestrade saw John visibly stiffen and quickly followed up, “It’s not serious though, Mycroft told me. They’re all fine.”

“Well that’s good I suppose,” John said, but he sounded anything but convinced, “Excuse me, please.” With that, John marched briskly into Sherlock’s room.

Both Lestrade and Mary exchanged panicked glances, all too familiar with John’s bubbling anger. Lestrade shot her an apologetic look. Strange that he seemed to blame himself, Mary thought, she doubted she would have ever felt guilt at exposing a truth. She supposed she should get used to having truths exposed about her, though, as she would most certainly have to deal with that disconcerting prospect very soon.

“Here.” Mary said, suddenly placing her child into Lestrade unsuspecting arms who in turn gaped at her as if she’d lost her mind. In honesty, Mary couldn’t say that she hadn’t. She followed through the door after John, too quickly for Lestrade to protest the sudden childcare arrangement. Uttering her swift thanks she left Lestrade, utterly confused, in the hallway.

Upon entering the room, Mary spotted Mycroft at the corner of the room who raised an eyebrow at her presence but ultimately decided he didn’t want to push the matter. Mary quickly focussed her attention to Sherlock, who was sitting surprisingly upright for someone she could also assume was masking immense exhaustion and pain. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he had only readjusted into this position as soon as John had entered the room. Not entirely sure what she had been expecting, but physically Sherlock looked almost the same. Still pale and definitely much too thin but other than that she couldn’t detect anything physically wrong. 

“The baby’s with Lestrade then? Good, I expected so.” Sherlock said in a quiet voice most definitely directed at Mary herself. Of course he had known she would have come too. He would have known that she’d realise how much power he currently had over her - which was ironic really given his current situation. 

His voice gave him away, showed Mary a solid change in Sherlock’s demeanour. While physically he appeared unaltered, fatigue was threaded into each utterance, changing the detective so wholly that Mary was almost unsettled. Sherlock was usually animated in one way or another, whether in irritation or excitement. He was expressive and obnoxious and arrogant. This Sherlock was none of those things; he was subdued and exhausted and fragile. Perhaps, she thought selfishly, this Sherlock could be reasoned with.

“John.” His voice was gentle, whether that came from physical exhaustion or if it was tied to that look that Mary had only ever seen Sherlock make when he was looking at John. The first time she had seen it was the very same day he’d come back, but she couldn’t describe just what it was. _Just the two of us against the rest of the world_ , he had said. 

Mary came close to being jealous of that gaze - so similar to his deductive stare but softer and more contemplative as though he were listening with not only his mind but his heart. Jealousy had never suited her or come naturally though. Besides, she genuinely liked Sherlock and was utterly fascinated by how his genius and incomprehension of humanity worked simultaneously.

Mary watched her husband. He was still bristling from the new information he’d gotten from Lestrade but he hadn’t said anything yet. This was good. It meant he was managing it, keeping that same old fire under wraps.

“I wanted to apologise.” Sherlock murmured so quietly that Mary was almost unsure if she heard him correctly. She had not heard Sherlock Holmes apologise so sincerely in her life. John seemed taken aback as well, the cogs in his mind chewing their ways through those words and deciding what to make of them.

“For what?” John said tersely, keeping his tone level - natural.

“Everything.” Sherlock’s eyes darted in Mycroft’s direction, confirming he was still there.

“Everything…” John said slowly, “Like not talking to me ever, not trying to ever reach out and then disappearing for days?” Sherlock only nodded wearily. “Like hurting those innocent people?”

“What?”

Sherlock looked up at that perplexed, eyes searching for answers in John’s own. Mary looked at Mycroft, whose chin was rested on the handle of his umbrella, knuckles whitened around where he was gripping it.

John swallowed. “The people in the crash you caused.”

“Oh, those people. They won’t be left with any lasting damage from what I heard.”

“But you understand they wouldn’t have been in that situation if it weren’t for your choices, yes?”

Sherlock was trembling slightly now, but blinking quickly to retain any composure he had left. The wobble in his voice was prominent when he finally responded.

“I- I didn’t intend for- I don’t-” 

This was clearly not going how Sherlock had planned. Mary knew enough about him to know he would have been meticulous in his approach to this conversation, making mental notes on how he was going to reason with John - how to explain _this_ to him. Evidently he’d overlooked this detail of John’s personality; that unwavering moral compass that would spear and rage through everything in its path.

“No you don’t usually mean to, do you? But we keep letting you get away with it don’t we? When will you learn you can’t rely on Mycroft to clean up your messes forever? When will you _grow up_?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably at mention of his name, and made a noise to protest. Of course Mycroft was willing to help Sherlock at every corner. Mary could feel the love he had for his brother a mile away.

“I thought the people were all okay and it wasn’t a problem… I didn’t think that-”

“That what? They mattered in any way? That your random moods justify harming innocent people for no reason whatsoever? You’re so unbelievably stupid sometimes, Sherlock, you know that? You could have killed them, Sherlock - _that’s_ the point. You were lucky, you’re _always_ lucky. You act and don’t think about others and then you lie and lie to cover your tracks. When is it going to _end_?” John paused breathing heavily, shoulders shaking visibly as an angry flame rattled through his ribcage, “You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself. You’re so wrapped up in whatever your mind is currently occupied with and you _hurt_ people and you _lie_. I’ve had enough.” 

John stormed out of the hospital room, taking all the anger - all the pain, hurt and betrayal - with him, leaving only tremors in his wake. 

Something in Mary’s chest lurched. _You lie and lie to cover your tracks. You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself_. John’s words ricocheted between every nerve in her body. They weren’t directed towards her, but they may as well have been. How much about her did John not know? That she had intentionally shot to kill Sherlock? That she had known about Sherlock’s illicit activities days in advance? Hell, he still didn’t even know her full name - only those meager initials he had decided to burn along with everything else in Mary’s past.

Energy rippled through the room in the moments after John’s abrupt departure. Mycroft was seething, but seemed to be stuck to his chair, still holding that damned umbrella. She couldn’t endure looking at Sherlock for longer than a second; he hadn’t moved and was staring at Mary, dithering at the door, as though dissecting her with his eyes. It was unbearable.

Mary fled the room. It was what she was used to. If a mission went south, fleeing was her best and only option. She could no longer bear to be in a room with Mycroft’s rising ire and Sherlock’s sad, haunted eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so mEAN to lestrade, poor guy. he has fucked up Twice now,, but honestly maybe its better in the open idk up to u. also the way sherlock predicted mary would come along with john and so asks for lestrade simply so he could hold the baby in the hallway,, that cracks me up, man idk. i know i wrote it but i just find it very amusing. surprise babysitting session.
> 
> anyway im in PAIN in general but i did it to myself so i suppose thats my bad ;)
> 
> also the song is hoax by taylor swift. i kind of... want to use it twice... because i have another idea floating in my head where it fits but its not necessarily this fic so maybe nobody will notice anyway. (but for insurance if you see me reuse the song then look away, you saw nothing)


	18. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had sat together in silence for over twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in which Sherlock was utterly unreadable and Mycroft tried to quiet his disgust at the behaviour Sherlock’s supposed friend had just displayed. To an audience. Despite him being the most observant man alive, this did happen sometimes, when his brother would go so still and quiet that even Mycroft couldn’t determine what may be going through his brother’s mind. The words came as a welcome break to the silence, even with the melancholy laced into each syllable.

{All the skeletons you hide

Show me yours

And I'll show you mine}

* * *

Lestrade heard John yelling through the door. His daughter heard too and began to wail inconsolably. Shushing and rocking, Lestrade did his best to temper that fitful flood erupting from the small creature swaddled in his tentative arms, but he was met with no avail.

When John thundered out of the room, door swinging to a stentorian standstill, he ignored Lestrade’s gentle offering of his own child. John only raged past, and Lestrade watched helplessly after, still holding the screaming baby. It was somewhat of a relief when Mary exited only moments later, and willingly reclaimed her child. She stroked her small scalp gently with the pad of her thumb until the baby paused her onslaught, and eventually quieted.

Mary left almost as quickly as her husband, leaving Lestrade standing infuriated and wordless in the corridor. Dithering for a few moments, Lestrade then dejectedly took his own leave. He didn’t want to intrude on the brother’s after that, and judging by recent events he always seemed to make every situation he touched tenfold worse - like the Midas of bad fortune.

* * *

“I didn’t say what I planned.”

They had sat together in silence for over twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in which Sherlock was utterly unreadable and Mycroft tried to quiet his disgust at the behaviour Sherlock’s supposed friend had just displayed. To an audience. Despite him being the most observant man alive, this did happen sometimes, when his brother would go so still and quiet that even Mycroft couldn’t determine what may be going through his brother’s mind. The words came as a welcome break to the silence, even with the melancholy laced into each syllable.

“I will be having words with him on the way he behaved, I can pass along whatever you wanted to say.”

Sherlock shook his head miserably, the sudden movement sending a lurching hand to his mouth as nausea seeped in. Mycroft knew Sherlock well enough to know what he meant: John had to hear it from him. Proffering an almost full cup of water, Mycroft pulled his chair closer to Sherlock’s bedside once more. The suggestion was ignored. Instead the detective sank further and further into his bedsheets, mingled fatigue and hurt laying heavy on his chest.

“That wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. He was angry before he came in and you likely just took the brunt of it.” Mycroft said carefully, perfectly aware of how volatile Sherlock was at this moment, how quickly the situation could change to something much less in Mycroft’s control. The elder Holmes reached out to his brother, wanting to place a hand on his shoulder - or even in his hair as he had done as they were children - but knew any physical contact wouldn’t be appreciated at this time. Seeing Mycroft’s hesitation Sherlock said nothing but made it known his brother had his attention. Those pale eyes warily studied him as Mycroft placed his right hand on his left exposed palm and drew them into his chest: _safe._

As children, Mycroft had quickly learned that Sherlock would sometimes, in stressful or exhausting moments, fall into periods of silence, in which no prompting would break him into vocalising whatever it was that was being asked of him. Instead of forcing his brother into talking as many of the adults did, he learned British Sign Language and taught Sherlock the words and phrases he had learned. 

‘Safe’ had become his way of communicating everything Mycroft would never say aloud - that unspoken, unconditional care - but he hadn’t used the sign in years. He had never needed to use it. Mycroft felt that the sign was redundant once Sherlock had hit his later teen years; he was able to manage himself so he no longer lost his spoken language. Often these coping mechanisms were less than desirable, and had become much more of a concern to Mycroft than any lapses of silence.

Quirking an eyebrow at the age-old sign, Sherlock retaliated in the only way he knew how. Palms pressed out in front of him and swept down, and a tentative index finger pointed at his person.

_Leave me alone._

Mycroft gave a resigned sigh and glanced furtively at his watch, aware that he had a video call with the Prime Minister in the next hour. Of course Sherlock caught Mycroft checking the time and glared at him pointedly.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Mycroft said grabbing his umbrella and striding from the room, the icy covering frosting him over as he didn’t look back. Sherlock sniffed and turned over in his bed. Once again Sherlock was alone in a white room. 

* * *

_Nobody ever really liked me much either, Sherlock. Don’t worry my dear._

The headache that pounded at his temple with razor-sharp fists amplified Moriarty’s voice when he spoke the first time - only fifteen minutes after Mycroft departed. Sherlock wasn’t surprised, he was logical enough to know that without the drugs it was only a matter of time before that dark shadow crept back onto his perch at the forefront of Sherlock’s consciousness. That logic didn’t stop his already raised pulse accelerating and his stomach from flipping and twisting in distress.

Moriarty embodied every destructive thought Sherlock had ever had, that he’d managed to bury below compressed layers of sediment, work and drugs. Before, those thoughts had been voiceless, a facet of Sherlock’s own subconscious that he could mute when something particularly interesting happened in his life. Now, after having been given the voice of the only man Sherlock truly feared, those thoughts had been amplified and giving free rein.

 _Remember little Carl Powers? He wasn’t so little, though really. Carl was so much older than me, and freakishly tall._ Moriarty’s playful drawl seized and ensnared Sherlock’s mind, drawing him in and forcing his utmost attentiveness. He whistled sharply as though he were truly impressed by Carl’s height - as if he were capable of being impressed by such trivial matters. Ricocheting through every nervous fibre of Sherlock’s being, that whistle hollowed out Sherlock’s mind to an aching, empty cavity - ready to be filled with whatever cruel torments Moriarty had in store. 

_Carl Powers… I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing. See, that’s the real difference between you and me, Sherlock. You could have been brilliant- so, so brilliant but oh, no! You’re one of the good guys apparently. Something about… let me see… sentiment? Emotion? You’ll have to correct me if I’m wrong, Sherlock, but the way I see it… you were so close. So very close to being exactly - exactly - like me._

Sherlock shook his head roughly with no regard for the sharp pain it inflicted on his head and buried his face into the pillow in some kind of pitiful, immature solace from Moriarty’s hissing words - spitting like poison. Shook his head in a futile attempt to dislodge Moriarty scathing, burning remarks because _he was right._

That’s what made Moriarty so horrifying. They were inseparable. Two sides of the very same coin. Sherlock had many lingering blank faces stored in rows in his mind palace. These faces were almost entirely deleted, but their memory somehow held tight, fast and terrifying. But they were just people. Horrible, terrible people but human nonetheless. Moriarty was so much more than only a man. He was Sherlock’s blackened and corrupted reflection. Only a few choices had kept him from being another James Moriarty. They were both intelligent enough, arrogant enough and held that same laxity in the face of death. Sherlock could so easily have become him if he had been left to his own devices. Where Moriarty was cold, Sherlock was warm and where Moriarty was dispassionate, Sherlock cared. His mind reeled at how much suffering he may well have inflicted if his family, his upbringing, his morals had been only slightly different. At what he _could have been._

_You don’t like that do you, Sherlock? I’m hurt, Sherlock, really I am - why is the thought of me so appalling to you? I am, after all, in your own head. Surely that means, in some way, you’re not quite as separate from me as you’ve been led to believe. All these little thoughts Sherlock… they’re you, not me. I’m dead! I’m not real! A bullet in the head and still, after all this time, I live on in you?_

Sherlock’s hands were in his hair now, scrambling for purchase. Something, anything, to ground him in this moment. His stomach churned threateningly, bile rising in his throat as pale, trembling fingers pulling at dark curls hoping to uproot Moriarty through his scalp.

 _John can see it, Sherlock. He’s always been able to see how little you care, truly_. Moriarty’s looming voice shifted then into something infinitely more terrible. Into a softer, rougher tone Sherlock could identify immediately. A voice he knew, and loved, so dearly: John’s own. _There are lives at stake, Sherlock - actual human lives. Just- just so I know, do you care about that at all?_

You knew it wouldn’t last with John, didn’t you? Nobody ever sticks around long enough… in honesty I’m surprised it took him this long - you should really be grateful for that. Snaking and constricting his chest, turning Sherlock’s lungs into a breathless, rattling wasteland, Moriarty slowed and the shattered remnants of John’s last words to Sherlock lay discarded on the floor. _You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself._

_I’ve had enough._

Moriarty was barely a whisper now, what he had come to do was done and the damage was irreparable. Glee settled like heavy, fallen snow into his voice, trickling icy blood through Sherlock’s veins. You are me and I am you. 

Sherlock’s body gave into the barrage of physical and emotional assault, retching everything he had been forced to eat over the past three days into the bucket at his bedside. Shaking and pained, Sherlock was almost too preoccupied to notice that Moriarty himself had faded away into the stifling hospital air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Once again Sherlock was alone in a white room." - this links to the white cell mentioned in 'Preface' which is another fic in this series  
> song is savior complex by pheobe bridgers :)


	19. Black, White and Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet Sherlock’s face, his voice, when he had addressed Mycroft’s use of his old nickname was still burned into the back of his mind - you called me honeybee - as an echo of a Sherlock that Mycroft believed to have died a very long time ago. To encourage that version of Sherlock back out again with a pastry embodying more childhood memories was a selfish action, but Mycroft wasn’t quite able to shake the silent hope that that young Sherlock still lived on - that he could live and breathe again. And so Mycroft Holmes did not abandon the pastry or that faithful optimism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im posting this to say SORRY SORRY SORRY for running away. my motivation for this fic literally... it just died idk what to say or explain it just perished. but i wrote this as like?? an apology help. ive only proofread this once so sorry if it really sucks. but i felt like i owed yall an apology of sorts for disappearing in a spectacular fashion. i promise ill update this fic if i ever regain motivation BUT for now this is definitely on hold because i barely watch sherlock anymore tbh because its kind of attached to a friendship that kind of died in the last months lol :DD (i dont not love it anymore, god that show is so special to me and i doubt thatll ever change). anyways enjoy this because its probably the last ull hear from me for the forseeable future :((( !! this fic is so dear to me and i still have a vested interest so a return is in the cards but perhaps not for a whole (i know how this fic ends i had it all planned out just the writing? is so hard omfg)

While Mycroft was excellent at his job, he harboured a resentment to the amount of interaction he had to have with mindless idiots who happened to occupy very high ranking positions within their country and the frequency with which he had to communicate with them. This meeting had been no different. Tedious and largely unimportant but unfortunately necessary. At least, he thought as he grabbed his umbrella from the stand, this hadn’t been a face to face meeting so it was from the comfort of his own home office and had a set time frame and was fully over by the end of it; no casual conversation preceded or followed it and Mycroft was able to set course for the hospital immediately. 

After letting Andrea know he would be returning much later in the evening and that she could go home earlier, Mycroft climbed into one of his signature dark cars with a minor security detail and took off to revisit his brother. He could only hope leaving him for such an extended period in such an uncomfortable environment at his most vulnerable hadn’t done any lasting harm.

Stopping off at a locally run bakery, Mycroft decided to buy Sherlock a cinnamon roll in the hopes that his sweet tooth may tempt him into finally agreeing to eat something without a fight. Deep down he knew it was probably overly optimistic thinking, but some part of him still saw Sherlock as a younger child able to be enticed into eating by smells of sugar and warmth. 

As he pulled up outside the hospital - a building that blended into London’s architecture, creating the facade of an unassuming warehouse - Mycroft gripped his umbrella and brown paper bag in the same hand, suddenly feeling foolish for bringing baked goods as though he were, well, _average_. He was one of the most important men in the country and had a reputation of being calculating and almost unfeeling - a caricature of an austere robot, the Ice Man.

Yet Sherlock’s face, his voice, when he had addressed Mycroft’s use of his old nickname was still burned into the back of his mind - _you called me honeybee_ \- as an echo of a Sherlock that Mycroft believed to have died a very long time ago. To encourage that version of Sherlock back out again with a pastry embodying more childhood memories was a selfish action, but Mycroft wasn’t quite able to shake the silent hope that that young Sherlock still lived on - that he could live and breathe again. And so Mycroft Holmes did not abandon the pastry or that faithful optimism.

The man that Mycroft did find was a reflection of an earlier Sherlock, but not the Sherlock that Mycroft had hoped. Gaunt and broken, like a discarded plaything, his brother did not raise his head as Mycroft entered the room. Did not react at all. Mycroft was sure Sherlock would have noticed his arrival, so his complete apathy towards him was deeply concerning. It had only been a few hours since his departure and whilst he was aware Sherlock’s body was fighting the suboxone treatment and his mind the cruelty of his supposed friend, he had not expected to find his brother devoid of any sign of life.

In many ways this was worse than the countless times Mycroft had found Sherlock in copious back alleys, pale and incoherent. This Sherlock was entirely defeated. Beaten down into a husk, a brittle shell of any previous humanity. And he could be sure it was entirely John Watson's fault.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, I’m glad you’re here.” A nurse Mycroft had seen in and around the hospital, but had never been formally introduced to, entered the room holding a plastic bucket. He placed it gently at Sherlock’s bedside, casting a concerned glance at the patient, before turning back to Mycroft - that uniform smile back on his face. “Could I have quick word?” he said, amiably as though discussing the weather - or television, “Outside?”

Despite knowing Sherlock’s objections to being talked about without his knowledge, Mycroft merely nodded. He suspected that it may be better for Sherlock’s personal pride to have this conversation out of his earshot.

Safely outside the room and out of earshot, the nurse held out a tan hand which Mycroft shook tensely. Awfully, this man reminded Mycroft far too much of John Watson. He, as every employee within this hospital, clearly had a history of combat or field work, from the way he held himself and the cool manner in which he approached this conversation. There was also a genuine kindness in his brown eyes; a kindness he had thought John Watson had also possessed. 

“Alexander Thanellis, I don’t believe we’ve properly met”, the nurse said, again with that same sickly mimicry of normalcy. He supposed it was better than most, with their brimming nervous energy and pitying glances, at least Thanellis wasn’t making anything worse. 

“Sherlock seemed to have some kind of a nervous breakdown while you were away,” Thanellis said plainly. Mycroft appreciated his direct manner, that he didn’t mince his words or dither around the topic. “We weren’t actually in the room at the time, but we found him about two hours ago, much as he is now. Completely non-verbal. He had been sick in the bucket, and was drenched in his own sweat and shaking but otherwise nothing you wouldn’t expect from a particularly intense reaction to the suboxone - except we reviewed his medical history and such a severe reaction hasn’t been documented. Am I right in thinking that?”

Mycroft nodded slowly, understanding seeping in and causing his blood to boil. While suboxone had never been pleasant, Sherlock had never been physically sick from the suboxone itself. There had always been additional emotionally taxing experiences, on the few occasions it had occurred. 

“That’s what we thought. We got him freshened up, which he did without resistance I’ll add, and I just cleaned out the bucket but he hasn’t spoken once. We’re aware that something must have happened in the space between your departure and when we found him to trigger such a reaction, but we don’t know him well enough to make a justified assumption… We were hoping you may be able to determine that for us?”

“Oh, I think I know.” Mycroft said so icily that even the sunny and focussed Thanellis withdrew for moment, taken aback. A cold air settled in the hospital, as the Ice Man consumed Mycroft and a chilling wind blew through the open window.

***

Sherlock drew further into himself as Mycroft reentered the room once again. He knew from his gait that the nurse had told him what had happened, and that he was most likely about to lecture him, in three, two-

“We need to discuss what happened earlier, brother mine. You and I both know this wasn’t a reaction to the suboxone, so I would appreciate if you could be honest with me, okay?”

Sherlock didn’t move, his slumped position against the pillow showing no signs of having understood Mycroft’s words despite them being so impossibly loud and rattling in his eardrums. His elder brother only sighed, and Sherlock could sense him physically relaxing himself. Uncoiling from that coffin of ice, and attempting to warm both his hands and Sherlock himself. 

“It’s okay, we’ll do this another way. You don’t have to face me - or talk, but could you nod for me? When appropriate?”

A small nod. It was a comfort amidst the destruction Mycroft could feel lay deep in his brother’s chest, a barren wasteland of discarded and emptied emotion. Mentally, Mycroft rephrased any questions into a more quantitative form - black and white, yes and no. It was how Mycroft would prefer the world to work, no complications to wrestle with or nuances to combat - yet human beings were inherently multi-coloured, brilliant hues of colour exploding onto one messy, human canvas. It’s simply what made life so complicated. And, beautiful - though he would never admit he appreciated humanity on a such an embarrassingly impractical level. 

“I suppose I’ll ask the obvious, since I know you and I are both expecting me to: was this in direct correlation to, or as a result of Doctor Watson’s frankly despicable manner earlier this morning?”

Sherlock dithered, before nodding ever so slowly as though still making up his mind on the matter. He began pulling on a loose thread on one of the seams on his duvet cover, suddenly consumed by something he so obviously wanted to reveal. Sensing his brother’s anxiety, Mycroft pulled a small black book from the inside of his waistcoat, and a black pen and handed both to his brother who ashenly took them. Uncapping the pen Sherlock dutifully wrote five small words on its blank surface, in that long spidery script so distinctive of his brother. 

_It’s because he was right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love u all and adieu <3   
> p.s. im still on ao3 doing an umbrella academy fic if that interests anyone otherwise THANK YOU ALL FOR THE SUPPORT <3


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